by Pat Herbert
“That’s just the trouble,” said Bernard. “We can’t prove it. We – that is, my friend Dr MacTavish and myself – know the man in question and we’re sure he didn’t do it. That’s why I came to see you to see if you could remember anything that might help convince the police they’re barking up the wrong tree. Or at least cast a doubt in their minds.”
Henry turned to Bernard with a serious expression on his face. “I would tell the police like a shot, if I thought it would help. But I don’t see how all this vague stuff I saw as a child will be of any use.”
Bernard had to agree with him. “I know, Henry. It was a silly idea of mine in the first place. All it’s done is dredge the past up and made you unhappy.”
“No, please don’t worry about that. I’ve come to terms with it now. And, if I can do anything to help, I’d be more than happy to.”
“Thank you, Henry, that’s all I wanted to hear. I’ll go to the police and tell them your story, although they’ll have it all on record. The one thing I really wanted to make sure about is – er – ”
“Yes, Bernard?”
“Will you be prepared to give evidence at Allardyce’s trial?”
Henry looked very sad. “But what about my world trip?”
Bernard had forgotten about that. “Oh dear, of course. Never mind ….”
“I’ll cancel it! We can go after it’s all over.”
“Oh, Henry,” said Bernard, tears starting in his eyes. “Thank you!”
“If I can prevent a miscarriage of justice, it will be worth postponing our trip.”
They walked back to the house together, both of them now aware that the sun had disappeared and had left a viciously playful wind in its place.
“Nobody believes in ghosts these days, do they?” said Henry as they entered the house through the kitchen. “But they do exist!”
“Henry, I know they do. You’re preaching to the converted,” said Bernard with a sad smile.
27
As far as the police were concerned, the murder in 57 Bockhampton Road was an open-and-shut case. The husband did it. Bert Allardyce was to go to trial in three months and, in the meantime, was being detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
One day, in early February, Bernard arrived at Wormwood Scrubs with his visitor’s permit. Bert looked defeated and unkempt, a beaten man. Bernard sat down opposite him, the grill between them.
“Hello, Bert. How are you?” What a silly question, thought Bernard. The man’s a wreck, and I don’t know how to help him.
“As you see, Reverend. It’s good of you to come and see me, especially as you hardly know me.”
“Not at all – I would have come sooner but I’ve been trying to convince the police of your innocence. But, as you know, I’ve failed dismally. For that I’m deeply sorry.”
“Thanks for all you’ve tried to do, anyway. No one else has bothered. But I could have told you you’re wasting your time. The police don’t go in for ghost stories – understandable, I suppose.”
“All is not lost, Bert. We’ll prove your innocence yet. Dr MacTavish and I will be called as witnesses and, our trump card, Henry Freeman will also give evidence for your defence. We’ll convince the jury that you didn’t do it, don’t you worry.”
“Who’s Henry Freeman?”
Bernard proceeded to explain.
“The poor kid,” said Bert. “What a dreadful thing to happen to someone so young. I want to be home with my boys, Reverend. I’ve only seen them a couple of times since being incarcerated here. They looked so unhappy. But, what’s worse, I think they believe I killed their mother. So, even if I’m found not guilty, mud sticks.”
“I know, I know.” Bernard felt totally inadequate. Even if he assured him it wasn’t the case, Bert wouldn’t believe him. Besides, mud did stick and, unless the real murderer was found and convicted, it always would. And, of course, the real murderer, as far as Bernard was concerned, had been dead and buried for many years. “How are the boys, by the way? Who’s looking after them?”
“They’re staying with Mary’s brother’s family in Barnstaple. So, as you can imagine, I don’t get many visits from them.”
“Have you seen Mary’s brother?”
“No. The boys came with my sister-in-law. A nice woman, but she clearly thought I was Jack the Ripper. They’re probably filling the boys’ heads with all sorts of wrong ideas about me. They don’t mean to, I’d imagine, but nevertheless, what they believe must get through to them, the twins especially. I think Terry’s too young to understand what’s happened. I hope so, anyway. It’s just so hard to take – that your own sons could believe something so awful of you.”
Bernard’s heart went out to him. It was one thing to be wrongly accused of murder, but quite another to have your own flesh and blood believe you capable of such a crime. But they were too young to know any better. If a grown-up told them black was white, they were at the age when they would believe it.
A bell rang, signalling the end of visiting time. Bernard stood up and gave Bert a not altogether convincing smile. “Chin up, Bert. All is not lost. You must believe that.”
“Thanks again for coming.”
“I’ll come again soon, hopefully with some better news.”
Bernard walked out of the room, along with the other visitors, deep in thought. He’d forgotten about the Allardyce children. They, like poor Henry before them, must be suffering deeply.
Bernard learned the dreadful news two days later. Mrs Harper had brought in the evening paper with his tea and buttered crumpets. What a treasure she was to him. So loyal. She cooked and cleaned, and her cooking alone was worth her weight (which was not inconsiderable) in gold. Who needed a wife, when he had a housekeeper like Mrs Harper? She did everything for him a wife would do, apart from sleeping with him and suing for divorce.
After he had finished his fourth crumpet, licked his buttery fingers and drained his teacup, he had picked up the evening paper. It was the best time of the day. The lamps lit, the fire glowing, and he had thought how perfectly content he would have been, if only he’d been able to help Bert Allardyce.
Then he had seen the headline, half-way down the second page of his evening paper:
ACCUSED MAN DIES OF HEART
ATTACK WHILE AWAITING TRIAL
There had been no point in reading any further. Bert Allardyce had died of a broken heart – literally. He had phoned Robbie MacTavish at once but had been told by his housekeeper he was still seeing patients in his surgery. He had at least another hour to wait before he could talk it over with his friend.
When Robbie finally arrived, Bernard could tell by his face that he had also received the news of Bert’s death.
“We weren’t able to save him after all,” said Robbie with a deep sigh. “What an utterly sad situation, especially for his boys. First, their mother is murdered, then their father is arrested and charged for the crime, and now they’ve lost him, too.”
“You’ve summed it up only too well, Robbie. Here, down this,” said Bernard handing him a glass of Glenfiddich. “You need it.” Bernard poured himself his usual tipple, a sweet sherry. “So do I.”
They sat in front of the fire, not speaking for several minutes. The only noise was the comforting sound of the clock ticking on the mantelpiece and the logs falling in the hearth. Finally, Bernard broke the silence.
“Did Bert have any history of heart problems? Did you have any reason to believe he could be heading for a heart attack?”
“That’s just it. I should have thought about that. I looked at his medical records when Bert came to visit me that evening. Just a cursory glance to see if there was anything I needed to look out for. I do that with all my patients.”
“And?”
“Well, according to his notes, he’d had a bout of rheumatic fever when he was a child, which, as you probably know, can cause heart problems in later life.”
“So you knew he had a weak heart?”
“I suppose I did. But I didn’t think there was any danger, as long as he lived modestly and didn’t overtax himself.”
“But he was a builder – a manual labourer.”
“Yes, but I understood that, since moving to the district, he was more of an overseer. He wasn’t doing any actual building work as such. If he had been, I would have advised him against it.”
“I see. But didn’t you think about the strain he must have been under since the murder?”
Robbie nodded sadly, sipping his whisky and cradling the glass fondly. “I should have checked him over. I shall never forgive myself. I should at least have warned the police and saw that he got some medical attention while he was in prison.”
Bernard leaned forward and patted his friend on the knee. “Don’t blame yourself, Robbie. It might be for the best in the long run. Even if Bert was found not guilty, the stigma would remain, and probably his boys would never be sure of him again. I doubt if he’d have been able to live with that.”
“You’re probably right. Life is so cruel sometimes. Why can’t we do something about that house now, Bernie?”
“Like what? Blow it up? Burn it down? I think the authorities might have something to say about that.”
“I was thinking of something more in the exorcism line. What about Dorothy?”
Dorothy Plunkett was a close friend of both men, although she favoured Bernard as her first choice for life partner. Bernard knew this but, deep down, was unsure of his feelings towards her. He loved her like a sister, he had finally convinced himself.
“She’s a psychic medium. She doesn’t perform exorcisms. We need a bishop for that. Anyway, I’ve tried to contact her, but she’s on some sort of countrywide tour at the moment.”
“I still think it would be a good idea. If she could contact whatever’s in that house, maybe she could help prevent another tragedy. I presume some other family will move into that house soon enough?”
“I don’t think it’s all that likely just yet. I mean, would you want to live in a house where a murder had just been committed?”
“Estate agents have a way of skimping over little details like that, Bernie.”
“Only too true, my friend. Only too true.”
The two friends sat on into the late evening with their drinks and pipes, chewing over the events of the past few days. Eventually they found refuge in a game of chess, but the tragedy that had befallen the Allardyce family was never very far from their thoughts.
PART FOUR
TO: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Tues, 24/09/2009
Hi guys,
Thanks so much for visiting me the other day and for the card. I don’t know when I’ll be back at my desk as things are a bit sticky right now. Please pass on my thanks to Mike for his understanding. I know he wants me back at the end of next week, so I’ll try and get my act together by then (LOL).
Don’t quite know what to do at the moment, what with the police enquiries and me obviously the number one suspect. Thanks, by the way, for not taking sides although I’m sure there’s a lot of speculation in the office. I hope I don’t have to tell you I didn’t do it, but – well, there you are. I’ve said it.
I want to get back to normality ASAP, of course, but I’ve got to sort my head out first. What happened is so horrible, I don’t even think I really believe it did happen. I keep expecting Beth to text me any minute and tell me to stop being an idiot. If only she would.
Anyway, that’s it for now. Your card has pride of place on the mantelpiece which never seems to get dirty. The rest of the place as you saw could do with fumigating.
Missing you lots,
Take care,
Jerry x
28
Harry Grimes stared out of the rain-spattered window that formed part of the Doggett and Finn’s shop front and sighed for the umpteenth time. He had been in the estate agency business for nearly twenty years and had never known the property market so depressed. There’d been lean times, admittedly, but this recession was the worst he could ever remember. Why wasn’t anybody interested in looking at the ‘for sale’ ads even? There were usually a few window-shoppers at least, and there were always some who came in, asked stupid questions and took away a few flyers to peruse at leisure. “Time wasters” he used to term them, but these days he would have been grateful for even a few of those.
He looked across at the two young people who made up the full complement of his staff. Barry John-Harrington had been with him the longest, the double-barrelled smart-arse. But he was a good salesman, he had to give him that. Eve Mason was a definite asset too, although for a very different reason. With that pretty face and those slim legs, she could sell pork pies to rabbis, she could. But, although they were both good at their job, even they couldn’t pull off more than one sale a month between them, if that.
He glanced back at the window as Eve put his mid-morning coffee down in front of him. There was a young man staring at the ads and, it seemed, by the concentrated look on his face, he was serious about buying. Harry had a nose for a potential customer; he could always winkle them out from the time-wasters. No danger.
He studied the young man standing in the pouring rain, crouched under a broken umbrella, the spokes dangerously threatening people as they squeezed past him on the narrow pavement. He looked very young, now Harry came to think about it. Still, it didn’t mean he didn’t have the means to buy. He could have rich parents, or a job that paid enough for him to have been able to save for a mortgage. Mind you, thought Harry, you’d have to have been saving from the moment you came out of the womb to have enough to buy these days.
Jerry Bracegirdle saw at once that the price of the flats on sale was way beyond his budget. He was about to go on his way when he noticed the estate agent eyeing him hopefully. Business not as brisk as usual, then? Poor man, he didn’t think. Still, he thought, might as well go in and see if there was anything remotely within his budget.
He watched with amusement as Harry squirmed Uriah Heep-like to his feet and shook his hand. He even called him ‘sir’.
“Hi,” said Jerry, “I’m just looking at the moment. Are the properties advertised in your window typical of what’s available? Because I really can’t afford anything there.”
“I’m afraid the flats in the window are all around the same sort of price, depending on location, number of bedrooms, decorative condition et cetera,” Harry told him. “I’m sorry.”
But, as Jerry shrugged and turned to leave, Barry John-Harrington spoke up. “What about that house in Bockhampton Road, Harry? Have you shown the gentleman that?”
Grimes smiled. “Of course. Thanks for reminding me.” He took out a flyer from the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. “This property might suit you, sir,” he said, offering it to him. “This little terraced house is quite a bargain.”
The young man took it from him tentatively. “This wasn’t in the window, was it? I don’t remember seeing it.”
“Er, no. I’ll be frank with you,” said Harry, looking anything but. “It hasn’t been a best-seller this one. As you can see there’s an obvious reason for that.”
Jerry studied the photo of a run-down terraced house, squashed in between two much smarter-looking dwellings. It certainly didn’t seem very promising on the face of it. But he was desperate to leave home. His parents were driving him mad, trying to run his life for him. He had never stopped being their ‘little boy’, despite being all of twenty-five. Jerry knew he’d have to get a place of his own soon or be had up for patricide stroke matricide. Was there a word for killing both parents? he wondered idly.
“What do you think, sir?” Grimes prompted.
“Oh, sorry, I was miles away.”
To say the house was uninviting was to understate the case by miles. Not only was it in a very dilapidated state, it looked strangely forbidding. It had an ee
rie air of abandonment about it which Jerry picked up just by looking at the photograph. Still, it had a roof and walls and, although it would need renovating from top to bottom to make it habitable, if the price was right, it’d be better than nothing. He’d soon have it knocked into shape. He was an optimist.
“Hmmm. It’s very run-down, of course. What’s the vendor asking for it?”
Harry riffled through his file. “The odd thing is that there is no asking price, as such,” he said.
Jerry had the feeling the riffling wasn’t necessary. This man knew all along that was the case. “What do you mean?”
“Just that. The vendors are living in Spain and just want shot of it. Any price you care to name will be considered. Within reason, of course.”
“Of course.” Jerry smiled. “What’s the catch?”
“Catch?”
“Yes – catch. The property is obviously in need of a great deal of renovation, but it’s certainly worth investing in, I should imagine. So, if I offer a price well below its market value and I’m accepted – well, there must be a catch.”
“I think it’s just that the owners are in need of ready cash to continue living the lifestyle they’re used to in Spain. They’ve got property out there and it’s in need of renovation too, so they need to get their hands on some money quickly.”
“Hmmm. How long has it been on the market?”
“A fair while. Most people don’t want to be bothered with refurbishment. They just want to move in as is. As long as there’s a new fitted kitchen, modern bathroom, wooden floors throughout and magnolia on the walls, they’re happy. Most people don’t have much imagination.”
“Okay,” Jerry said. “I’ll be interested to view at least. It can’t do any harm to have a look at the place.”
