by Pat Herbert
“I said just now that my father was in a grave in Wandsworth prison grounds last time I looked. Well, this morning he was somewhere else.”
“Er, I see,” said Bernard not seeing at all. This conjured up visions of Burke and Hare starting up their evil trade again. He must stop reading bloodthirsty literature, he thought.
“Sorry, vicar. I’m going around the houses a bit. I sort of need to prepare you, because what I’m about to say you’re not going to believe …”
Winter, 1937
The snow was relentless. It fell slippily down windows and down necks, making no distinction between the two. It was the coldest January Inspector Ernie Flagg could remember. He rubbed his hands to bring back the circulation, but only succeeded in chafing them and making them sore. Added to this, he had two difficult suspects waiting to be interviewed, and to say they were being uncooperative was something of an understatement. And to say they were ‘different’ was a bit of a misnomer as well. He studied the charge sheets and scratched his head. How on earth was he going to nail this one, he wondered. Sighing he turned from the window, fed up with looking at all that bleak whiteness outside, and picked up his now tepid cup of tea. Would anyone in this God forsaken police station ever be able to make a decent cup of tea? Not in his lifetime, he surmised.
Oh well, he thought, better get back to the interviews. They’ve had enough time to stew in their own juice. Perhaps a couple of hours staring at the four walls of their individual cells might make them more reasonable. It was something unheard of in his experience, and his experience was far-reaching and lengthy. A man of some forty-eight summers, he was a personable figure around the place; one might almost say avuncular and all the young coppers looked up to him. He had solved many a grisly murder on his patch, and his grit and determination to, using his own words, ‘nail the bastards’ had earned him the soubriquet ‘Terrier Flagg’.
However, the case on which he was now working was giving him sleepless nights. The murder of a young barmaid several months ago had resulted in the apprehension of a man formally identified by a reliable eyewitness. She had picked him out of the identity parade without a moment’s hesitation. It had taken only a couple of days to find him and Flagg couldn’t believe his luck in ‘nailing’ this particular ‘bastard’ so quickly. A complication arose, however, when the man’s twin turned up. They were now giving each other an alibi. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the eyewitness concerned had been able to tell them apart, but this had proved impossible. Flagg was of the opinion that it was carrying identical twins too far when they were actually as identical as these two men undoubtedly were. Added to this, they had ridiculous Christian names. He could only imagine that their father had been obsessed by the French Revolution, as one was called Robespierre and the other Danton.
“I’ve put Robespierre Fentiman in interview room one,” said a voice behind him. He had been staring out of the window again, wondering just how much more snow was up there and likely to fall on his head when he finally managed to go home that night. “… and the other one in two. Sergeant Pensfold is going to work on him.”
Flagg turned round and stared at the young policeman, whose pimply face turned bright red when he realised he had made some kind of faux pas. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but he could tell by the look on his superior’s face that he had said something amiss.
“I don’t like the use of that expression, Phillips,” he said crossly. He was tired, cold and not a little hungry. The bacon sandwich he’d eaten at lunch had long since made its way through his alimentary canal, leaving room for plenty more food if it had been in his power to provide it. But it was now a quarter past ten and the canteen had long since closed. He reminded himself that he must remember to eat at suitable intervals in future. His supper would be ruined and disposed of long before he got home, that was for sure. His wife had lost all patience with his irregular hours many years ago.
“Er, sir?” said Phillips hopefully.
“You know – ‘work on him’. We don’t ‘work’ on anyone in this station, young fellow my lad,” said Flagg. “But you can redeem yourself if you can rustle up another cup of tea, a hot one this time, and possibly a – biscuit?” This was a vain hope but he uttered it anyway.
Phillips visibly brightened. He liked and admired Flagg and wanted to please him. “I can do better than that, sir,” he said, grinning. “I’ve got some homemade fairy cakes left over from my lunch. My mum makes them and they’re really tasty – only she makes so many I can never get through them all before they go stale.”
Flagg grinned back. “Then, don’t dawdle man. Fairy cakes and tea at the double.”
As Phillips hurriedly left to do his bidding, he sighed again. Unfortunately, the tea and cakes would have to wait as he had Robespierre Fentiman to interview yet again. He had given him the third degree several times over, until it was more like the sixth or seventh degree, but the man hadn’t shown any signs of cracking up. Flagg knew Robespierre was his man, but that silly twin brother of his had obviously been coerced into helping him. Danton Fentiman was an altogether nicer individual and one, in Flagg’s opinion who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, let alone murder someone in cold blood.
Summer, 1956
“Snakes and Ladders?!”
“Yes … er, I thought it’d make a change from chess.”
Dr Robbie MacTavish stared at his friend in frank disapproval. “Are you serious? We’re grown men not six-year-old schoolboys.”
Bernard shuffled his feet and put the offending board game down on the table between them. They were in Bernard’s vicarage study two days after the visit of Carl Fentiman. It was half past eight in the evening, the usual time for Robbie’s visits. These mainly consisted of drinking whisky (in the case of Robbie), sherry (in the case of Bernard), and a game of chess. Bernard hated the game and always lost. This was mainly because Robbie was the better player and fiercely competitive. If Bernard had ever had the temerity to win, the irascible doctor would have been very upset indeed.
Bernard shrugged, sat down and sipped his sherry. “Fair enough, just thought you’d like a change.”
“You’d like a change, you mean, old boy.”
“All right. So what if I would? Chess gets a bit boring every night, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t. It taxes the old brain cells. Keeps one from going senile. Going up snakes and down ladders would send me round the bend in two minutes flat.”
“Its up ladders and down snakes,” muttered Bernard under his breath, as he folded up the board and put it back in the box.
“What was that?”
“Er, nothing. I’ll get the chess board out in a minute, but before I do I’ve got something very interesting to tell you.”
“Good. I’m all ears.”
“You remember that man that kept humming in my face at the christening of his twins last week?”
“Hmm, yes. I should think I do, seeing as how you’ve been moaning on about how much you disliked him ever since.”
“Yes, well, would you believe it, he turned up here only the other day.”
Robbie raised his eyebrows at this. “And didn’t we say we’d never have to set eyes on him again? That’s a blow.”
“He gave me the creeps, I can tell you, especially after what he told me.”
Robbie leaned forward, his eyebrows beetling in anticipation, all thoughts of castling and mating relegated to the back of his mind. “Do tell, old boy. Don’t keep me in suspense.” He rubbed his hands in childish glee.
“I was shocked, I can tell you…”
“Please, Bernie, get on with it.” He swigged his whisky and lit his pipe. Leaning back in his chair he waited for the revelation.
“He said that he’s being haunted by the ghost of his father, although he’s not sure that it actually is his father or his uncle…”
“Is he deficient in brain cells or weak in the optic department?” Robbie laughed.
“Neither �
� just wait till you hear…”
“It seems I’ve been waiting all evening, old boy.”
“Well, just let me tell it then. This Carl Fentiman said he first saw the ghost of his father – or uncle – yes, thank you, Robbie, last week. He came into his work room – a kind of shed, actually – and there he was…”
“There he was? How, exactly?”
“The man – that was either his father or uncle – was hanging from a wooden beam. Just swinging there, apparently.”
“My God! But, surely he could tell whether it was his parent or uncle – or was the vision not that clear?”
“It was like he was a real person, he said. He could have reached out and touched him.”
“Then why couldn’t he tell who he was?” Robbie was flummoxed.
“Oh, didn’t I explain? Fentiman’s father and uncle were twins. And he’s also a twin. They run in his family.”
“Ah! That makes sense now. So what happened? Did the hanging ghost say anything?”
“According to Fentiman, he said just three words: ‘I wasn’t guilty’.”
“Wasn’t guilty? Wasn’t guilty of what?”
“Murder, Robbie. Apparently the case caused quite a stir at the time. It took place not a million miles from here – in Tooting High Street, of all places. And – wait for it – because it was done by a twin, the other twin gave him an alibi. The eye witness couldn’t positively identify one or the other, so it was on the cards that they’d both be hanged – or, hopefully for them, both be let off.”
Robbie’s eyebrows were now up near his hairline. “Goodness! They couldn’t get away with that, could they?”
Bernard shrugged. “Apparently they could. But the ghost told Carl Fentiman that his twin was finally persuaded to tell the truth, so the murderer met his fate, after all. However, he is adamant that he didn’t kill the barmaid and that’s why he appeared to his son, or nephew, to get him to clear his name. It’s all most puzzling.”
Robbie rubbed his chin. “Hmm, what I can’t understand is, if his father was hanged for murder, why does he not know it was his father who appeared to him? It wouldn’t be the uncle, would it because he didn’t get hanged.”
“Well, I’m not sure I understand that, either. Maybe they hanged the brother for perverting the course of justice. Maybe they hanged people at the drop of a hat in those days.”
Robbied smirked. “Well, it couldn’t have been that long ago, surely? They didn’t hang people like they did in the middle ages for stealing a loaf of bread.”
“No, I suppose not. The murder took place in the mid-nineteen-thirties, so I understand, and they certainly didn’t hang people for perjury then – adultery, yes, but not perjury.”
The two men knitted their brows in unison. “So why didn’t this Carl know it was his father?” said Robbie after a moment. “Unless, of course, the uncle got hanged for a completely different murder.”
Bernard sucked on his pipe that had just gone out. “Bit too much of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say? Mind you, this Fentiman chap isn’t very pleasant so it wouldn’t surprise me if he was descended from a whole clan of murderers.”
Robbie grinned. “You’ve certainly got it in for him, haven’t you? I’m surprised you want to help him at all.”
“I’m intrigued, Robbie. I wish Dorothy were here. She’d be able to help, I’m sure.”
“Yes, but she’s not here,” his friend pointed out. He, like Bernard, was missing her and hoped she’d soon be back. Her father was taking his time about dying and, in the meantime, Dorothy’s life was on hold. It didn’t seem fair to him, especially when there were two red-blooded males – well, one and a half, he adjusted, looking at Bernard – waiting and very much wanting to see her again.
Bernard sighed. “She said in her last letter that her father was more fragile than ever, so maybe soon…” He trailed off. “Anyway,” he said brightly, “maybe she’ll know someone we could ask. She must know other mediums, the circles she moves in. I’ll write to her.”
And that is what the vicar of St Stephen’s did: that very night.
Autumn 1936
She giggled. Putting her hand over her mouth in what she fondly hoped was a coy feminine way, Dulcie Mortimer fluttered her eyelashes at the handsome man who had introduced himself to her across the bar of the Rutting Stag public house, Tooting.
“That’s a funny name,” she remarked, pulling his pint. “No offence,” she added.
He laughed. “Blame my dad. He called me after some geezer in the French Revolution. My brother’s also named after someone from that, but his name is at least pronounceable…”
“What’s that then?”
“Danton. Robespierre’s ridiculous. I’ve had to live with it all through school and you can imagine what a lot of nicknames I got called.”
“No doubt.” Dulcie fluttered her eyelashes again. She liked the look of this man with the outlandish name of Robespierre Fentiman. He was handsome in a rather decadent way, and his mouth was much too full for a man. She would have killed for a pair of lips like that; instead she had to make them seem larger with the aid of her Max Factor ‘Blush Pink’ lipstick. At least it was the one that all the film stars wore. She didn’t want any truck with the Woolworth’s cheap rubbish that most girls of her class used, that was for sure.
She continued to scrutinise him from behind the handle of the beer pump. She appraised his magnetic, grey-green eyes and the dark lashes around them; again these were much too long for a man. She had to summon Max Factor to her aid yet again in order to elongate them to the same degree. His hair was dark and luxuriant, flattened to his head with half a tin of Brylcreem. She liked that. He was tall and slim, and altogether a very pleasing prospect. She certainly wouldn’t mind walking out with him some evening. Her night off was Wednesday, although her husband didn’t know that. As far as he knew, the only time she had off was Sunday afternoons. That suited her fine. She could walk out with whomever she chose on her night off, and Colin Mortimer would be none the wiser.
She felt sorry for the other barmaids when she was around, as they never got a look in from the male customers then. They all wanted to be served by the beautiful blonde. Tonight she was working alongside Monica Hurst, a sulky, pimply-faced woman of some thirty summers and, Dulcie said to herself, God knows how many winters. She should try smiling for a change. But there was no getting away from the fact that she would never hold a candle to Dulcie Mortimer in the beauty or popularity stakes, so it was no wonder that she was jealous. Dulcie knew that Monica was desperate for a husband and her desperation somehow communicated itself to the men who came into the pub, causing most of them steered clear of her. They eagerly turned to her much more attractive colleague who not only appealed to them physically, but was also better at pulling the pints.
Dulcie handed him his pint, and that gentleman said, “And have one yourself, dear”. She tittered and thanked him. She turned to the gin optic and helped herself to a measure.
After giving her the benefit of a knowing wink, Robespierre and made his way over to a vacant table by the window. Unfolding his newspaper, he pretended to read, but every so often he glanced over to the bar. Every time he did so he caught Dulcie looking straight at him. Got her, he thought smugly.
As Robespierre looked across at Dulcie, he couldn’t help comparing her to his dry stick of a wife. Of course, he hadn’t fooled himself into thinking he’d married her for love, well not that kind of love, at least. Love of money was the reason. Mildred Mason was wealthy in her own right, and she wasn’t a bad looker when he had first met her. He soon had her eating out of the palm of his hand, although her strict, suspicious father had warned her strongly against him, taking him for the conniving, underhanded money-chaser that he was. Mildred had, naturally, dug her heels in and was determined to marry him against her father’s wishes.
So it was that Robespierre gained himself a wife and a fortune at one and the same time. Ever since he had lived a life of
idle luxury, with plenty of time on his hands to fritter away her money on gambling and drinking. Any vague feeling of affection for his wife had long since disappeared, and since the birth of the twins all the life had been sapped out of her. That was over ten years ago, and since then he had had his fair share of hole-in-the-corner affairs to flatter his ego and keep him from being bored to death. He had left in his wake a few broken hearts and even one or two vindictive bitches who had threatened to tell his wife when he decided he’d had enough of them and was preparing to move on to his next conquest. One young lady had to be silenced rather more forcibly then he had intended and she had ended up in a neck brace. He told her that the next time she tried to blackmail him he would finish the job properly by snapping her neck completely. He had had no further trouble from that quarter.
Yes, he thought to himself. Dulcie Mortimer would do for him very nicely. She was just his type. She reminded him of Jean Harlow with her peroxide hair and generous figure. Yes, she would definitely do for a while. Until the next young lady appealed to him, of course.
As he was thinking these thoughts, Monica came up to his table to remove the empties. “These dead?” she asked monosyllabically.
He looked around the edge of his newspaper and studied the glasses. There were three empty ones and his current half-full one.
“Yes, thank you,” he said formally. He didn’t want to encourage her by opening a conversation of any kind; he certainly didn’t intend to give her one of his ingratiating smiles either. He felt sorry for the woman and would have passed the time of day with her if he knew that she wouldn’t take the inch he gave her and turn it into half a mile.
“Ta,” she said, expertly picking up all three glasses in one hand. “You been chatting up Dulcie, then,” she stated as a matter of fact.
“Er – Dulcie? Er, oh yes. The blonde. Yes, well, I had a few words with her, if that’s what you mean,” he said, as if it’s any of your business, he added to himself.
