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

by Kate Ellis

  Suddenly Peter’s shoulders dropped, as though he was resigned to some dreadful fate, and as the three of them walked down to the village the boy dragged his feet. Gwen wondered whether his reluctance stemmed from a guilty conscience, whether her worst fears were about to be realised and that he had indeed been responsible for Miss Fisher’s injuries.

  When they reached the police station door Albert took Gwen to one side and told her what he wanted her to do, but as she watched him walk into the building with Peter she was tempted to follow and insist on staying with them. At that moment Peter seemed so fragile that she feared if too much pressure was put on him he’d retreat once more into the world of his imagination. She hoped Albert Lincoln would treat him gently but as she was walking back to Miss Fisher’s cottage after a brief visit to reassure the Rudyards that their son was safe, she began to have doubts.

  Albert had asked her to do something for him, something her instincts cried against. She had secrets of her own, private things that were her business alone so she baulked at the idea of intruding into the privacy of others. However, according to Albert, Dr Michaels had given Miss Fisher enough laudanum to keep her unconscious until the morning so this would be her only chance.

  She let herself into the silent house with her latch key and once she was in the hall, her eyes drawn to the dark stains of dried blood on the wall. She fought the temptation to turn on her heels and run from the house she’d always considered so oppressive. But she’d made a promise to Albert and, unlike some, she always kept her promises.

  She climbed the stairs slowly and once on the landing she paused by Miss Fisher’s bedroom door, wondering what she’d do if the laudanum hadn’t taken effect. If her landlady woke up and started asking awkward questions she’d have to bluff it out so she took a deep breath and turned the doorknob.

  Although the room was in darkness the curtains were thin enough to let in the filtered moonlight so she could make out the shape of her landlady beneath the bedclothes, making soft snuffling sounds like a sleeping infant.

  She fetched the paraffin lamp that was still burning on the landing and re-entered the room, holding the lamp aloft. After watching Miss Fisher for a whole minute to make sure she didn’t stir, she crossed to the dressing table and placed the lamp in front of the mirror. Then she began to pull out the drawers, starting at the bottom.

  As she rifled through drawers filled with underwear, she was surprised to see that some of it was silk; the sort she’d imagined an actress like Dora Devereaux would wear. This was a side of Miss Fisher she had never imagined and as she continued her search she came across face powder, rouge and scent, although she had never seen her landlady wear it.

  The contents of some of the drawers appeared to belong to a different woman – or a woman who led two separate lives – and after another glance at the bed she continued her search, feeling the backs of the drawers to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.

  When she’d finished she replaced everything as neatly as she could, closed the drawers and stood back, seeking inspiration. There was still the wardrobe – and the little carved box on the bedside table. She picked up the box carefully, only to find it was locked.

  It was then she noticed the thin chain around Miss Fisher’s neck, one she had never noticed before because her landlady was in the habit of wearing high collars. Gwen had to investigate. She folded the eiderdown back gently and when Miss Fisher showed no sign of moving she tugged at the chain because whatever was on it had worked its way round to the back of her neck so that the sleeping woman was now lying on it. The chain loosened and Gwen saw a small key; now it was a matter of feeling for the catch.

  When she touched Miss Fisher’s warm flesh, the woman stirred and Gwen froze, waiting for discovery. But when she showed no sign of waking she continued and eventually managed to release the catch.

  With the key in her hand and another nervous glance at Miss Fisher, she picked up the box and unlocked it before carrying it over to the dressing table where the light was better.

  Inside she found a pile of letters tied together with blue ribbon. Love letters Gwen had received similar ones herself from George Sedding when their affair was at its peak. She undid the ribbon and started to read, assuming she’d discover precious relics from her landlady’s past, perhaps from some man who’d courted her then gone away to war never to return. But what she read shocked her.

  There was nothing romantic about the descriptions of sexual violence and the fantasies of death and murder. This wasn’t love, it was unhealthy obsession.

  I often think of what we did and I dream about having that power again. We held the ultimate power over life and death and if the nobodies in this village knew our true nature how they’d respect us. All those little people with their meaningless lives would say we should be sorry about what we did when the boy caught us together. But I can’t be sorry and I can’t help laughing when I think how we fooled all those idiots, rich and poor, into thinking we’re docile cattle just like them. But we’re more than that; we’re the ones who decide who lives and who dies. Does that make us like gods, do you think? I can’t wait to feel that power again. Is that so wrong?

  Gwen read it with dawning horror. Whoever had written these letters had mentioned a boy and that could only mean Peter Rudyard’s twin, Jimmy. Judging by the use of the word ‘we’ it looked as though Miss Fisher was party to the child’s murder as well. She stood with her hand clasped to her mouth, tears stinging her eyes. If her suspicions were correct, the woman lying motionless in the bed a few feet away had, with another, killed an innocent child. She continued to read.

  The old woman deserved to die for keeping us apart like that and I watched you when you pressed the pillow down on her face. She fought for her life but you showed no mercy even though she was your own mother. How I admire you. How I long to be with you again.

  There was no signature on the letters, which meant she had no idea of the man’s identity. But Miss Fisher’s world was small so it had to be someone from the village. A monster in disguise. Peter Rudyard had often spoken of monsters but his were in his head. This one was real.

  The letters were evidence and she didn’t want to give Miss Fisher an opportunity to destroy them so she took them out of the box, locked it carefully and replaced it on the bedside table before refastening the chain around the woman’s neck with trembling hands, praying that she wouldn’t wake.

  Once Gwen was satisfied she’d left no signs of disturbance, she picked up the lamp and crept into her own room, stashing the letters at the back of her wardrobe inside her best pair of winter boots, hoping it would be the last place Miss Fisher would think to look. Then she had second thoughts. She should keep them with her until she had the opportunity to show them to Inspector Lincoln. He’d know what to do with such explosive evidence. She placed them in her handbag and fastened the clasp.

  She replaced the lamp on the landing and let herself out of the house quietly. Her legs felt heavy as she began to run down the road towards the police station and as she passed the Rose and Crown the windows glowed with welcome. For a split second she was tempted to burst in and tell John Rudyard, who was bound to be in there, that she knew the identity of his son’s killer. But she fought the impulse. This needed to be dealt with by the authorities, even though every extra yard between her and the police station seemed fraught with danger –she knew the second killer was still out there somewhere.

  She saw a Rolls-Royce parked at the side of the road, and slowed her pace. A man was leaning against the driver’s door smoking a cigarette and something about him made her uneasy.

  He spotted her and called out, ‘What time is it?’

  As she drew closer she recognised him as the good-looking man she’d seen driving through the village in an Alvis. She’d heard he was a war hero who’d arrived a few months ago and taken a house near the Ridge. Even so, she approached him with caution.

  ‘Must be around half past ten.’

&
nbsp; ‘Damn motor’s run out of petrol.’

  ‘Can’t help you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You can if you’ve got a bicycle?’

  ‘I haven’t but my landlady has one.’

  ‘It’d save my life if I could borrow it.’

  He looked at her appealingly, his charm on full throttle.

  ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t time. I really have to go,’ she said, preparing to hurry on. But she felt her arm being grabbed, so tightly that it made her wince. ‘Let me go.’ ‘All I’m asking is to borrow it for a while. It won’t take you a minute to get it.’ She heard a threat behind the words.

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  The man’s grip tightened. ‘Don’t be a silly girl. Just get it. Where do you live?’

  Gwen thought quickly. If he had to ask then he obviously didn’t know. ‘This way,’ she said, setting off in the direction of the police station.

  He walked by her side, still gripping her arm so that, to the casual passer-by, it would look as if they were a couple out for an evening stroll. She noticed he walked with a slight limp as though he’d been injured in some way. The police station’s blue light came into sight, guiding her like a beacon. She could tell he’d seen it too because he slowed down.

  ‘It’s just past the police station,’ she said, trying to sound confident.

  He gripped her arm tighter and lowered his head, pulling his hat over his face with his free hand.

  She timed it perfectly. As they drew level with the open door of the police station she let out a piercing scream and the man loosened his grasp.

  ‘Bitch,’ he hissed before pushing her to the ground with some violence and dashing into the darkness as a constable appeared at the door.

  Gwen was on her knees but she pointed down the street, shouting instructions. A man had tried to abduct her and if the constable was quick, he’d catch him. It only took a couple of minutes for the young man to return in triumph with his captive in an armlock.

  Gwen followed them through the station door in time to see Albert Lincoln emerge from a door behind the front desk.

  ‘Mr Woodbead. Good of you to join us again,’ he said. ‘We’ve missed you.’ He turned to the constable. ‘Put him in a cell will you, Mitchell – and not the one with the useless lock this time. The charge is murder.’

  As Woodbead was led away he shouted back to Albert, ‘I’m not the only murderer in this village. Who do you think told me about the door?’ before his words were muffled by the slamming of the cell door.

  ‘Monty Ghent was in that cell before,’ said Constable Mitchell who was watching the commotion from behind the desk. ‘Must have been him who told him. Should I go and arrest him, sir?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary just at this moment.’

  ‘Is Peter Rudyard still here?’ Gwen asked.

  ‘He’s in the interview room. He hasn’t finished making his statement yet.’

  ‘He should be back home.’ There was determination in Gwen’s voice.

  Albert hesitated. ‘Very well. He can make his statement tomorrow after he’s had a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘I’ll take him,’ said Constable Mitchell. ‘He shouldn’t be out on his own at this time of night.’

  ‘That’s all right, Constable. I’m sure Miss Davies will be happy to see him home.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Gwen said quickly, thinking of the letters in her bag. ‘But first, may I have a word in private?’ ‘That’ll be all, Constable, thank you.’ Albert waited until Mitchell was out of earshot before ushering Gwen into his office. After a brief conversation, they emerged again – only to find that Peter Rudyard had already left.

  Chapter 65

  Peter

  The inspector from London left some paper on the desk and a pencil so I did another drawing of the Shadow Man only this time he’s got a face. It’s a nice face and I don’t know why he wanted to hide it. I think he’s sad and I wish he wasn’t. I thought I heard his voice through the wall in the police station. It might not have been him but it sounded like him – all posh like.

  I drew another picture too. I used to think the man who killed our Jimmy was one of the knights who lives on the Ridge but now I know who it really was. I didn’t see him very well ’cause I was hiding but now I know he wasn’t a knight. But if I tell I’ll get called a liar again.

  Me and our Jimmy were hiding behind the bushes when we saw him with Miss FishFace and they started making funny noises. I wanted to go but Jimmy wouldn’t come with me ’cause he wanted to stay and play so I went away and left him. That means it’s all my fault he died. I’ve drawn the man who dragged our Jimmy into the middle of the stones and now I’m scared he’ll come and kill me too if he finds out I saw him with Miss FishFace.

  I’ve just finished my drawing when the door opens and he’s standing there smiling. He says I’ve got to go with him and Mam says I must always do what a policeman says.

  Chapter 66

  Albert’s leg felt stiff and he was angry with himself for not being able to run faster because Peter Rudyard was with his twin brother’s killer and he was in grave danger.

  Albert had recognised the handwriting on the letters Gwen showed him at once. He’d seen it enough times since his arrival in Mabley Ridge and, along with the statement Grace Rudyard had made about the night of Patience Bailey’s death, everything was starting to make sense. He’d checked the duty rotas for the evening in question and there was no reason Grace would have seen him there in the cemetery at that particular time – and certainly no reason she’d lie.

  ‘Where do you think he’s gone?’ Gwen was at his side and he was glad he wasn’t alone out there in the dark.

  ‘The Ridge?’

  ‘Too far,’ she said, on the verge of tears. ‘He has to be somewhere nearer. Unless … ’She was thinking what Albert hardly liked to put into words. If the boy was unconscious he could be carried anywhere by a strong man. And the killer was strong.

  ‘He knows the terrain,’ said Albert. ‘All the short cuts. Go back into the station, will you, and tell Mitchell what I’m doing.’

  She obeyed at once, leaving him to limp on. It was half a mile to the Ridge, then even further to Oak Tree Edge, but if Albert was in the killer’s place this was where he’d be heading. He’d make it look like an accident and claim to be a hero who tried to save the child.

  To his surprise Gwen soon joined him again, breathless from running fast. ‘The constable said he’ll catch us up. He can’t believe it.’

  ‘Neither could I until now. When I think back to the first investigation … ’

  ‘What about Mrs Bailey … and Mrs Pearce.’

  ‘I think they witnessed something – probably an assignation between the pair. If that’s the case they didn’t stand a chance. Sometimes two people who are harmless individually egg each other on to act out their darkest fantasies and get a taste for murder. I had a similar case in London once; I’d just never associated it with Jimmy Rudyard’s murder.’

  Gwen heard the self-reproach in Albert’s voice. ‘You can’t blame yourself for not seeing it back then.’ She shuddered and Albert wasn’t sure whether it was the cool night air or the thought of the killers’ depravity. ‘I’d always thought him completely trustworthy.’

  ‘Perhaps he was until he met her. The ingredients for explosives can be harmless on their own but mixed together … ’

  So far the moon had provided enough light to guide their way but now they’d reached the path that led through the trees. Beyond that inscrutable barrier of waving greenery was the wild landscape Albert had come to fear. The epicentre of his worst nightmares.

  He hardly liked to acknowledge that he was in pain. The wound in his leg that had bothered him on and off since the war was throbbing now but he couldn’t stop.

  When he stumbled and Gwen put out a hand to steady him he waved it aside because he didn’t want her to think of him as an invalid. He didn’t want anyone to think he wasn’t fi
t enough to do his job. As soon as the canopy of trees cut out the silver moonlight he flicked on the torch he was carrying.

  He was about to call Peter’s name but he stopped himself. It might alert Peter but it would also alert his captor. For a few seconds he began to wonder whether he was jumping to the wrong conclusion because there was still the possibility that Peter was responsible for Miss Fisher’s injuries and that he’d fled the interview room of his own accord, terrified that he’d be punished. Then he remembered the picture the boy had drawn – and the letters Gwen had found in Miss Fisher’s room – and carried on.

  The woodland was filled with strange sounds: rustlings, snapping twigs and the desperate cries of hidden birds and animals. Albert imagined he could feel the presence of the souls of the men who laboured here hundreds of years ago; and the spirits of the landscape watching and mocking. This place had got the better of so many over the years.

  As they drew close to the stone circle Albert raised his hand, a signal to stop and listen. The breeze was hissing in the branches overhead but he could hear something else. A voice, deep and resonant, speaking softly with a hint of menace behind the mumbled words. He crept forward and a twig cracked beneath his feet like a gunshot.

  The voice stopped and he flicked off the torch. In the last rays of light he had seen the fear on Gwen’s face and he suddenly regretted involving her in a situation fraught with unknown dangers.

  As if she’d read his thoughts she whispered in his ear. ‘If Peter’s there, you’ll need me to look after him while you … He’s only a child, Inspector.’

  ‘Albert. Call me Albert.’ In the intimacy of the moment it seemed appropriate.

  Then a high-pitched voice tore through the darkness. ‘I won’t tell on you, honest. Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  Albert switched on his torch again and hurtled forward, ignoring the pain in his leg as he burst from the cover of the trees. To his surprise the first thing he saw, looming in the trees at the other side of the clearing, was a tall figure in an officer’s greatcoat. Monty Ghent was moving towards the circle of stones as though he was in a trance.