by Pat Herbert
“Do I really have to spell it out?” she said, now becoming impatient.
Danton kissed her on the brow and put his paper under his arm. “I must be off, dear. Time is pressing. Can you not tell me what I’m missing? I’m no good at guessing games.”
“You, my dear, are missing nothing. Neither am I. We are now complete.” She laughed.
Even this statement seemed to shed no light for her husband. “What is it, my love?” He pressed his hand to her brow. “You’re not feverish as far as I can tell.”
“My condition isn’t generally considered a fever – or any other illness,” she said coyly. “I’m going to have a baby!”
She laughed as he hugged her. She knew he would be missing his train that morning.
Summer, 1956
An hour had elapsed since Carl Fentiman had telephoned his twin brother Basil, asking him to come and see him. Carl knew Basil didn’t much care for him; he knew he disapproved of him and had long ago given up expecting him to change. But Carl couldn’t have cared less. He had a nice wife and two lovely baby twin sons, so what Basil thought of him was of little importance.
Carl was also aware that his sister-in-law was equally disapproving of him. Celia Fentiman was known for her good works that included the inevitable coffee mornings, bring and buy sales and tireless devotion to the church. She spent many hours there, arranging the altar flowers and polishing the pews. She admired the vicar of St Stephen’s and was always the first to volunteer for any fund-raising scheme to help restore the church to its former glory. She would have been mortified to know that Bernard found her a complete nuisance; always hovering and asking what she could do to help. Basil and Celia lived not far from St Stephen’s and the vicarage; just around the corner, in fact. As well as attending the services, Celia was in the church most mornings organising the cleaner and inspecting her work. She had, in the end, organised and inspected her out of a job; the woman had been so annoyed by her interference that she had handed over her bucket and mop and told her in no uncertain terms to ‘get on with it if she thought she could do it better’.
All this do-gooding was probably to compensate for not having children. She had been told that it was unlikely she would ever be able to conceive. She and Basil loved each other very much, but there were times when the knowledge that they would never bring a child into the world drove a wedge between them.
When Carl had called Basil, asking him to come and see him as he had something extraordinary and very worrying to show him, he was intrigued: there was no denying that. He didn’t particularly enjoy visiting Carl at any time. He lived at least a half-hour’s drive away and resented wasting his precious petrol ration to go and see someone of whom he disapproved and actively disliked. But sibling duty sometimes got the upper hand; besides he knew Celia liked to visit Carl’s wife, Aletha. But today, Carl just wanted him to come alone.
“Well, what is it?” he said, on arrival.
“Ssh! I don’t want Aletha to hear,” said Carl. “Come round the back.”
“Round the back? What for? You ask me to come over, then don’t even have the courtesy to let me in the house. I don’t appreciate being mucked about like this. I’m a busy man, even if you’re not.”
“Oh, shut up, Basil. You can be such a stuffed shirt at times. I’m asking you to come round the back for a special reason.”
Basil could see his brother was serious. He looked worried too.
“Oh, very well,” he said reluctantly, “but it had better be good. I don’t like wasting my time, not to mention my petrol, coming round here on a wild goose chase.”
“Just wait,” said Carl, not in the least put out by his brother’s attitude. He was used to it. “Follow me.”
A few moments later, the brothers were in the shed.
“So, what am I supposed to see?”
Carl stared at the spot where he had last seen the ghost of his father hanging. He wasn’t there. “Typical!” he said. “Just wait a minute – outside.”
Basil glared at him. “First you bring me to the stupid garden shed to look at – what? Your potting compost? Then you tell me to wait outside. I think I’ve had enough of your jokes, I’m going home.” With that, he turned on his heel and started back up the path to the front of the house.
As he did so, Carl turned to see his father materialise before his eyes, swinging from the hangman’s rope just like before. “Is that Basil with you?” said the ghost. “Impatient, as usual. Can’t wait five minutes for anything. He hasn’t changed.”
“Hang on, dad,” said Carl, not realising quite what he had said. “Basil! Come back! Look!”
“I’m going to say hello to Aletha before I go…”
“Come here – now!” bellowed Carl, beside himself with impatience.
Basil stopped. “Oh, for goodness sake. All right, all right. Keep your hair on.”
What he saw when he reentered the shed rendered him almost speechless. “What the … what on earth? Is – is that dad? Dad, is that you?”
“Yes, son, can’t you see it’s me?”
“Well, but – well you’re – dead, aren’t you? Didn’t you get hanged after all?”
“Why do you think I’m swinging up here? For my health?”
The question of his health, being dead, didn’t really enter into it. Both brothers concurred on that point, if nothing else.
Basil turned to Carl. “Are we sure it’s our dad? Couldn’t it be Uncle Danton?”
“Well, I wondered that, but he assures me its dad. Says he didn’t murder that woman and wants us to prove it.”
“Why’s he waited so long to tell us that?” asked Basil.
“I am here you know – this ectoplasm won’t last much longer. Please address yourself to me,” said Robespierre.
“Sorry,” said Basil, who couldn’t quite come to terms with talking to a ghost. He thought he was going mad. “So, what do you expect us to do about it now? That was nearly twenty years ago.”
As he said this, the ghost started to dematerialise. “This ectoplasm isn’t as good as it used to be…” And, with that, he disappeared.
“Well, what do you make of that?” said Carl grimly.
“It’s horrible. I assume you’ve seen him before?”
“Yes, I have. I thought you should know.”
“Quite right. Have you told anyone else?”
“The vicar – he’s got some medium or other to come and investigate. He’s bringing her here tomorrow.”
“A medium? Can’t see the point of that. We don’t need her – we can speak to our father direct. What we need is a detective with time on his hands.”
Carl nodded. “Yes, I’d thought of that. Shall we hire a private dick – like in the flicks?”
Basil smiled. “I think you’re rather enjoying this situation, Carl,” he said. “But maybe that’s exactly who we need. Do you know anyone?”
“No, but I’m sure I can find out. Anyway, I’m going to read the newspaper accounts of the murder first, see if they throw any light on who may have done it – assuming that dad’s telling us the truth.”
Basil looked serious. “I believe he is, and I for one would very much like to prove our dad wasn’t a murderer after all.”
“So would I,” agreed Carl. “So would I.”
Summer, 1956
“I’ve never met anyone like her, Robbie.”
It was getting on for one o’clock, and Robbie and Bernard were seated in the Feathers, chatting over a lunchtime drink, as was their habit. Bernard was anxious to finish his sherry because he didn’t want Mrs Harper to chastise him for being late for his dinner. She was quite a bully where lateness for her meals was concerned. But Robbie was in less of a hurry and pursued the subject of the vicarage guest.
“Lucy was telling me that Mrs Aitch is quite at the end of her tether with her. Apparently she’s eating you out of house and home – that was Mrs Aitch’s expression, not mine. Is it true? What’s she doing staying with y
ou anyway?”
Bernard reminded Robbie about Carl Fentiman’s visit and what he had told him about the haunting by his late father.
“Ah, yes, right. But where does this strange woman come in, though?”
“Through the vicarage front door, unfortunately,” said Bernard, draining his glass. “Dorothy, of all people, sent her to me.”
Robbie, who was still not making the connection between the haunting of Carl Fentiman and the appearance of Anbolin Amery-Judge, raised one of his ample eyebrows. “Dorothy? Why would Dorothy send you a mad old woman with a gargantuan appetite? Have you fallen out with her or something?” He grinned mischievously.
“No, no. I wrote to her and asked if she knew someone who could help with this haunting business.”
“Ah, I see. She’s some sort of medium, then?”
Bernard gave a hollow laugh. “Apparently. She taught Dorothy all she knows, or so she tells me, although I’ve yet to see any evidence of her psychic skills. Still, we’re going to see Fentiman this afternoon when he comes home from work, so maybe I’ll see what she can do then. She’d better be good otherwise I’ll send her packing. Do you know, Robbie, she ate my supper last night? I had to make do with cheese sandwiches.”
Robbie let out a guffaw at this. “That’s a first, old boy. Didn’t Mrs Aitch want to cook you another supper, then? Cheese sandwiches aren’t her style, surely.”
“There wasn’t any more steak in the larder last night. She couldn’t even find any ham for the sandwiches. I told her straight to get her priorities right. Then she did one of her sniffs and said she didn’t have eyes in the back of her head so couldn’t be expected to keep tabs on where all the food was going. She thinks the old girl creeps down in the middle of the night and raids the cupboards.”
“Dear, dear,” said Robbie, still finding the whole situation very amusing. “The sooner she goes home the better, eh?”
“I should say so. But not before she confronts this ghost. Sees what he wants.”
“But I thought you said that he’s told his son what he wants – to be cleared of a murder he says he didn’t commit?”
“Yes, but Fentiman wants help to do that. He can’t always communicate properly with the ghost, something that’s more in Anbolin’s line, hopefully. Anyway it’ll be an interesting experience, if nothing else.”
“I wish I could join you, old boy, but I expect I won’t be finished with my evening surgery in time. I’ll come over later and you can tell me what happened.”
“Okay. I’d better get back now as Mrs Aitch’ll have my hide if I’m late for dinner. Also I want to make sure there’s some left.”
The thought that Anbolin would be chomping her way through Mrs Harper’s excellent dinner with one eye on his own plate and hoping he was going to be late, was more than Bernard could stand. He left Robbie to finish his whisky alone.
Robbie was rather pleased at his friend’s departure as he noticed that Freda Lossways had appeared at the bar. It must be time for her early afternoon shift, he surmised, and his glass was now empty. He sauntered over to the counter, smoothing his hair as he did so.
“You’ve been dating that barmaid?” Bernard was shocked.
Robbie looked suitably embarrassed. “Well, we only went to the zoo, old boy,” he said. “It couldn’t have been more innocent.”
Bernard wasn’t at all sure about that. “But – but – not only is she married, she’s centuries younger than you. You must have looked like father and daughter.”
His friend didn’t rise to the bait. “So what? It didn’t prevent her from enjoying the penguins and the tigers.”
It was just after eight-thirty that same evening, and Robbie had joined Bernard in his study as promised. He was eager to hear what had transpired in Carl Fentiman’s garden shed that afternoon. But before he could ask about that, Bernard confronted him with something Mrs Harper had told him when she had brought his four o’clock tea.
“You’d better get that down you before old Annie Fernackerpan gets wind of it,” said Mrs Harper with a sniff. “She can smell a piece of fruit cake from a mile off.”
It was all too true. “Where is she at the moment, Mrs Aitch?” he said, pouring out his tea.
“In the parlour. No idea what she’s doing in there, mind. Seems to be feeling all the furniture and humming to ’erself, the silly old trout.”
“Let’s hope she stays there until I’ve eaten this delicious cake,” said Robbie, cutting himself a generous slice. “We’re due to go to this Carl Fentiman’s place in about an hour. She’s going to find out what the ghost wants.”
“She’s some sort of medium like Dorothy, then?”
“That’s right. Dorothy recommended her. Haven’t you got all the gen out of her yourself, Mrs Aitch? You must be slipping.”
“To be honest with you, vic, she gives me the right ’ump. I’m keeping well out of ’er way. She seems to think I’m some kind of ‘old soul’…”
“Old soul? Well, I suppose you are, Mrs Aitch,” said Bernard, laughing.
Mrs Harper looked daggers at him. “Not like that – I’m an ‘old soul’ in the psychic sense apparently. Gawd knows what she’s on about.”
“She does seem to be a bit of a law unto herself,” agreed Bernard. “Still, she won’t be staying much longer, once she’s sorted out this haunted shed business.”
“Don’t you believe it, vic,” sniffed Nancy. “She likes my food too much. She’ll be ’ere for days, if not weeks. I’ll probably end up bashing ’er over the ’ead with the frying pan. But I’ve got something to tell you … I nearly forgot.”
“About Anbolin?”
“No. She’s just annoying. I can live with that. What I can’t stomach is your friend…”
“My friend? Robbie, you mean?”
“Exactly. ’E’s only asked that barmaid at the Feathers out, ain’t ’e?”
“How on earth do you know that, Mrs Aitch?”
“Lucy told me. Crying ’er eyes out, she was. Said ’e’d come back from the pub full of beans. Said ’e didn’t want nothing for ’is dinner tomorrow as ’e was dining out in the evening, if you please.”
“Well, why on earth should that upset Lucy so much? She doesn’t like cooking, does she? It’d give her a break. She should be pleased.”
“Didn’t I just bloomin’ well tell you ’e’s taking that floosie from the Feathers out?”
“But he didn’t tell Lucy that, did he?”
“She got it out of ’im, naturally. She knew it before ’e told ’er, anyway, as she already knew ’e’d taken ’er to the zoo.”
Bernard looked at his friend with disappointment in his eyes. “I know you like her, Robbie, but I didn’t think you’d stoop to taking out a married woman…”
“She can’t be very happy with her husband if she wants to go out with me,” said Robbie lamely. “I only took her to the zoo the other day because she seemed to need cheering up… I wasn’t thinking of anything more sinister. I know I’m a – well, a bit older than she is, so it wouldn’t be right. I’m just looking after her as a friend.”
“And you’re taking her out to dinner for the same reason, I suppose.”
Robbie gave his friend a shamefaced look. “I – I really like her, Bernie …”
Bernard glared at him. This was the nearest they had come to having a row in all the years they had known each other. Robbie looked down at his shoes. “I’m sorry, Bernie. I’m weak, I know I am. Can’t resist a pretty face. I won’t take her out again after tomorrow.”
Bernard softened a little, but he wasn’t fooled. “Robbie, I’m sure you mean it now, but what happens when that ‘pretty face’ asks when is she going to see you again?”
Robbie huffed and looked up at the ceiling. He couldn’t meet his friend’s eyes, especially now Bernard was wearing his metaphorical dog collar. He didn’t approve, but then as a minister of the church he couldn’t very well do so. Robbie could see that he had put him in an invidious positi
on.
“I do mean it, old boy,” he said, not very convincingly. “But – well you know how it is…”
In fact, Bernard didn’t really know how it was at all. “You must try to overcome this temptation, Robbie. Have you thought about Lucy at all? She’s very upset, you know. Mrs Aitch had her crying on her shoulder earlier on.”
“I – I’m sorry about that. I wasn’t going to tell her, but she gave me the third degree. Once I’d told her I was dining out tomorrow, she wanted to know who with.”
“Can you wonder, Robbie? She must have known you wouldn’t be ‘dining out’ with a bloke! I bet you’ve never taken her out for a meal, have you?”
Robbie looked shamefaced again. “No, no I’ve never thought about it. But I will, to make up for it. That should cheer her up.”
“For a so-called man of the world, Robbie, you can be very naïve. She’ll know you’re only doing it because you feel sorry for her.”
Robbie knew Bernard was right. “Look, I’ll sort it all out, don’t worry.”
Bernard smiled now. “I know you will, Robbie, I’ve every faith in you. Now, I suppose you want to hear all about the ghost in Fentiman’s shed?”
Robbie visibly brightened, relieved that Bernard had seemingly let the subject of his burgeoning relationship with Freda drop, for the time being at least. “Yes, please. Did your mad old lady do the business?”
Bernard laughed. “I’ll tell you all about it. First, let’s pour the drinks.”
Robbie rubbed his hands at the thought of his friend’s special bottle of Glenfiddich which he kept especially for him.
Autumn, 1936
Robespierre Fentiman wasn’t, even by his own admission, the nicest of people. He and his twin brother, Danton, were brought up together, fed together, sent to school together, and doted on together by their loving parents. They had been treated equally, fairly and justly throughout their childhood and into their teens. So it seemed odd that they should have turned out so differently. Physically you couldn’t insert a pin between them; they both wore the same features and bore the same height. Robespierre was slightly stouter than his twin, but this was hardly noticeable to the naked eye.
