by Pat Herbert
Summer, 1956
The Feathers public house was full to bursting. There was an office crowd enjoying (very loudly) a leaving party for one of its colleagues, as well as two groups celebrating birthdays or anniversaries. Added to this, it was Friday night, when most people had more money in their pockets than at the beginning of the week, and were anxious to spend it. Into this fray, Bernard, Robbie and Anbolin ventured, the latter armed with her eternal knitting. The three had approached the pub with the object of finding a quiet corner to chat.
“I don’t think there’s a quiet corner to be had, old boy,” said Robbie dubiously. “We should have stayed in your study.”
Bernard had to agree, but Anbolin Amery-Judge was all for visiting the local hostelry to sample the port and lemons. As Bernard couldn’t oblige with that particular refreshment, she insisted on going to the pub, and both men were eager to learn what she had since found out about the hanging ghost. This, she would only divulge, she said, over a port and lemon.
Anbolin screwed up her pug nose at the sight of so many people enjoying themselves. Robbie scanned the room for a sight of Freda Lossways, but tried to make out he was just looking for a vacant seat. Bernard grinned to himself. He could see where his friend’s line of vision rested: the pretty blonde behind the counter serving pints.
“Can we ask someone to move?” suggested Anbolin, quite seriously. “After all, I’m an old woman and my legs won’t support me for more than ten minutes standing.”
Bernard was unsure what to do. He looked around for the most likely looking table to approach. Eventually his eyes rested on two couples who looked as if they were finishing their drinks in order to go on somewhere else. He hoped so anyway.
He addressed the friendlier-looking of the two men. “Er, excuse me, is there any chance that you might be going soon?”
The man looked at him. “What’s it to you?” he said, ignoring Bernard’s obvious vicar status in the form of his dog collar and showing him no respect at all.
Robbie intervened at this point. “Please keep a civil tongue in your head, laddie,” he said. “We have an old lady with us who is unable to stand and, as you can see, the pub is full.”
“Why don’t you take the old biddy home, then?” said the man rudely. “I’m just about to get another round in, so push off.”
“Well, of all the …” Bernard was speechless.
“Come away, old boy, we don’t want a punch up, do we? I’ll go and ask Freda if she can find us some seats.”
“Oh, do,” said Bernard sarcastically. “I’m sure she’ll wave her magic wand for you and present us with three seats in no time.”
“Oh, don’t be childish, Bernie,” said Robbie, hurt. “She’s taken a shine to me and you don’t like it, do you?”
Bernard was taken aback, realising that, in fact, he didn’t. He didn’t approve of Robbie’s friendship with her, but he didn’t altogether put that down to the fact she was married or too young for him. Some niggle at the back of his mind did point to a small spark of jealousy somewhere in his make-up.
“I – I – oh, go on and ask her then,” he said crossly. He took Anbolin’s arm and led her to safety in a gap by the window. “Just you stay there a moment, dear,” he instructed her. “Robbie’s going to find us somewhere to sit.”
Robbie, meanwhile, had got his way. Freda was only too happy to show him into the small back room where only the staff were allowed to go. “You can take your friends in here, if you like,” she said. “They’ll be quiet and comfortable. Can I bring you some drinks?”
“Thank you, Freda,” said Robbie sweetly. “The old duck would like a port and lemon, I’d like a whisky and my friend Bernie wants a sweet sherry.”
“Just you make yourselves comfortable, then, and I’ll bring them to you.”
A few minutes later they were all seated with their drinks in the snug little parlour at the rear of the pub.
“You never cease to amaze me, Robbie,” laughed Bernard, sipping his sherry. “I never even knew this room was here.”
“Well, you wouldn’t,” said Robbie, “being as how it’s only for the staff.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
Anbolin was very comfortable now, her needles were clicking merrily away. She had her preferred tipple in front of her, and was seated between two charming young men. She was very satisfied indeed. Who said you didn’t have so much fun when you got old?
“Now, dear lady,” said Robbie, “what more can you tell us about this strange haunting?”
“Well,” she said, “according to all the newspaper reports at the time, it was an open and shut case. The only difficulty was the twins angle.”
“Oh, that’s right. You told us that his twin brother turned up at a critical moment and helped give him an alibi,” said Bernard. “So what happened?”
“Haven’t you read the newspaper reports yourselves?” said Anbolin, dropping a stitch.
“Not in detail,” admitted Bernard. “Just that this Robespierre Fentiman was found guilty of the murder of his lover, and hanged. It was really quite straightforward – well, seemingly.”
“Yes, well,” said Anbolin, picking up the recalcitrant stitch, “it was all complicated because the brothers were so identical and the poor witness couldn’t swear which one she’d seen running away from her friend’s corpse.”
“The police arrested this Robespierre because her friend told them he was the one Dulcie was supposed to be going out with. She was sure of recognising him again, but when the police hauled in this Fentiman character, his brother turned up. They had to arrest them both, because neither one would admit to being the guilty party.”
“Ingenious!” said Robbie, swigging his whisky. “So how do we know they hanged the right man, after all?”
“Because at the eleventh hour, the innocent brother broke down and admitted that he had lied,” said Anbolin. “I’m not sure why he betrayed his brother in the end, the newspapers just say that the witness gave a positive identification and that the complication of the twin brother was finally overcome. Maybe the twin, Danton Fentiman, was afraid they’d hang him too if he didn’t tell the truth. They weren’t so fussy about who they executed in those days. Adultery was as good a reason as any, I understand.”
“It would serve him right, if they did hang him,” said Bernard self-righteously. “It was perverting the course of justice, at the very least.”
Anbolin stopped in the middle of a row and studied him closely. “You are very unforgiving of human nature, aren’t you, young man?” she said after a moment. “Especially for someone with your calling.”
“Me?” Bernard was shocked. “I – I’m a vicar,” he said, stating the obvious. “It’s my job to forgive. I’m forgiving all day long…”
“Excuse me, but isn’t that the other lot?” she queried.
“The other lot?”
“The bells and smells brigade. Isn’t it the Catholics that can get away with anything as long as they ask for forgiveness before they go out and do it all over again?”
“Yes, well, I don’t believe that’s right myself. I give blessings and point people on the right path wherever possible,” Bernard explained. “But some people are past saving.”
“See what I mean!”
Bernard didn’t and noticed that Robbie was smirking into his whisky glass. “And what are you laughing at?” He was thoroughly riled now.
“I love you, Bernie,” he said, “but you can be an old curmudgeon at times.”
Anbolin giggled and waited for Bernard’s response. It didn’t come. Instead that gentleman got up and left the room in search of the gents’ toilets.
“He’s a good soul really,” said Robbie, “just a bit straitlaced at times.”
“Oh, I’m sure he is,” said Anbolin, resuming her knitting. “Now, young man, just you get me another of these delicious port and lemons and a bag or three of crisps and I’ll tell you all I know about this fascinating case.”
> “Right away,” said Robbie, standing up to go to the bar. “I can’t wait to hear what you’ve managed to discover.”
“Yes, I think you’ll find it interesting,” she said, “and I will tell you when old starchy knickers gets back. Now off you go to the bar and chat up that nice young lady of yours.”
How on earth did she know about that, wondered Robbie, getting up to do her bidding.
Autumn, 1936
Danton Fentiman stared at his brother in horror on the night that Dulcie Mortimer met her untimely end. He looked dishevelled and wild-eyed, his clothes spattered with blood.
“But you – you’ve got blood on your clothes…” He had already pointed this out, but it did bear saying again. The man looked, for all the world, like a caged animal: an animal that had just eaten its keeper.
Robespierre had revived somewhat after the two brandies supplied by his brother, but was now mopping his sweating brow with his handkerchief. Danton could see blood spots on that too.
“I swear it. I didn’t kill her. I – I found her, that’s all,” he said after a moment. “She was already dead. Someone had stabbed her – there was blood seeping through her blouse.”
“Was there a knife?”
“No, I didn’t see one…”
“Then she could have been shot,” Danton pointed out.
“Shot, stabbed, whatever. She’s definitely dead and I didn’t do it!”
“Then why didn’t you call the police?” This was a reasonable question and one that Danton certainly wanted answered before the night was very much older. He folded his arms and looked sternly at his brother.
“D-do you think I could have another brandy?” said Robespierre, “I’ve had a shock, damn it.”
“In a minute,” was the reply. “Just answer my question first.”
“Because, dear brother, her friend saw me running away.”
“But why were you running away if you were innocent, man?”
“Well, who would believe me? You don’t, for a start.”
“It’s difficult. Where did you find her?”
“Just where we were supposed to meet, in the alley behind the Plaza cinema in the High Street. We always meet there.”
“I see. So, when you got there, she was already there – dead?”
“Yes, I keep telling you. Just give me that brandy.”
Danton removed the stopper from the decanter once again and poured out a generous measure. “Here,” he said. He looked at the fast diminishing liquid and returned the stopper without further ado. His brother would finish it off if he wasn’t careful, and there wouldn’t be any for the Christmas pudding that Charmian was due to start making soon. It was a trivial thought, but he found he couldn’t focus on the enormity of the scrape that Robespierre seemed to have got himself into. How many times had he warned him his philandering ways would get him into trouble if he wasn’t careful? But he hadn’t bargained on this.
Robespierre drank his third brandy gratefully. The warmth flowed through him and he visibly relaxed. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll bring you a replacement bottle next time I visit.”
“Never mind that. Do you think this person that saw you running away knew who you were?”
“Oh yes. Her name’s Beryl something. She’s a friend of Dulcie’s. She came with her the last time we met when she told me…”
“Told you what?”
“Oh, n-nothing.”
Danton snorted. “You really are a fool, Robey. Perhaps now you’ll stop all this gallivanting. You’re getting too old for it for one thing and, besides, you’ve got a wife and twins to consider. Don’t you ever stop to think of them?”
“Of course I do,” he said untruthfully. He couldn’t remember the last time he looked at his wife or noticed what she was wearing, or even if she was wearing anything at all. She just didn’t register on his radar. As for his twins, they were just two annoying, noisy brats, as far as he thought of them at all.
“Well, I’d say you were in a bit of a pickle, Robey,” said Danton unhelpfully.
“I know, I know, but what else could I do? If I’d told the police, they’d have arrested me on the spot.”
“Well, you’re covered in her blood, for a start. How did you manage that?”
“I had to check whether she was alive, didn’t I? I touched her, of course. There was blood everywhere.”
“I want you to go home now,” said his brother firmly. “I don’t want my wife to see you like this. In fact, I don’t want her to know anything about this at all. You see …”
“What?” Robespierre could see his brother was bursting to tell him something.
“I wasn’t going to say anything to you yet as it’s early days, but you’d better know now. She’s going to have a baby.”
He couldn’t keep from smiling as he said this. He knew his brother was in no condition to receive such joyous news, but this sort of upset wouldn’t do his precious Charmian in her present condition any good at all.
“Ah,” said Robespierre, who looked even more shocked at this news. “Th – that’s grand. I mean, you’ve been trying for ages, haven’t you?”
“Yes. I thought I couldn’t have children. My doctor said that it was highly unlikely. He said I wasn’t producing enough sperm…”
“All right. You don’t need to go into details. Anyway, you must help me.”
Robespierre seemed little interested in his brother’s impending fatherhood, and Danton could quite see why. If he was about to be hanged for a murder he didn’t commit, then he’d probably not be interested in impending births, of any sort.
“I must, must I? I think now, more than at any other time, I need to stay well out of it.”
“Well, I’m insisting you help me, because you can, you know.”
“Just how? You want me to go to the police with you and vouch for your character? I really don’t want to do that. You’re not exactly squeaky clean, and I’d be bending the truth. The police take a dim view of people who do that.”
“I’m not going anywhere near the police,” said Robespierre, getting up and going towards the decanter sitting enticingly on the side table. He poured himself another brandy and sat down again.
“But you must,” insisted Danton. “If you’re innocent, then you’ve nothing to fear.”
“Oh, that’s right, nothing to fear. Once the police get their hooks into me I’m a dead man.”
“There is such a thing as a fair trial …”
“… and a fair hanging. Isn’t that what they say?”
“As I said, if you’re innocent, you’ve nothing to fear.”
“Pull the other one, it’s got bells on. Anyway, you’re going to help me whether you like it or not.”
“Oh yes? And how do you think you can make me?”
“Well, for a start, I’ll tell the lovely Charmian all about it. That will do enough to bring on a miscarriage…”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Try me,” said Robespierre, his grey eyes flintlike in the half-light shed by the standard lamp.
“She – she’ll be upset, but anyway I don’t suppose it will be that bad…”
“I think you’ll find that you’re wrong there. She thinks the world of me, Dan, didn’t you know?”
“Just what are you implying?” said Danton, worried now. The look in his brother’s eyes was beginning to frighten him now.
“Just that. She’s very fond of me and she would be more than a little upset if she thought you weren’t going to help me.”
“All right, you’ve made your point. But, just what do you think I can actually do?”
“If and when the police get round to me as they will do I should imagine very shortly, you will turn up and provide me with an alibi.”
“Say that you were with me at the crucial time, I suppose?”
“No, not that. I know I can’t ask you to say that. Just be there, that will be enough.”
“Just be there? You’re not making much se
nse.”
“You see, the eye witness will know she saw me but she’ll see you and then she won’t be sure which one she actually did see. We are so alike…”
“That won’t work, will it? That’s mad.”
“It will if you hold your nerve. I’ll say I wasn’t there and so will you. Which one of us will she say she saw? She won’t, hand on heart, be completely sure. It won’t be possible, especially as it was getting dark at the time. The street lamps had just come on.”
“This is all very irregular,” said Danton, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I don’t know how I’ll keep a straight face, for one thing.”
“Just stick to saying you weren’t there and I’ll do the same. That’s all.”
“We’ll drive the police mad,” said Danton.
“Exactly. But it’ll be fun and they won’t be able to hold us if we both back each other up.”
“I suppose I have no option,” said Danton gloomily. “I’m not happy about this but I’ll do it. Now please go before Charmian sees you.”
“I’m gone,” said Robespierre leaping up. “Just lend me your jacket to get home. I don’t want anyone to see the blood stains, including my wife.”
Summer, 1956
Bernard looked at Anbolin open-mouthed. “How do you know all this?” he asked her. “About his wife and all. You’re presuming quite a lot aren’t you?”
Anbolin began counting her stitches and didn’t speak for several minutes apart from saying numbers out loud. Both Robbie and Bernard grew impatient, as it turned out she had nearly two hundred stitches on her needle.
“That’s odd,” she said, “I only cast on a hundred and twenty.”
“Dear lady, please tell us how you know all this about the brothers.”
She smiled at them as she finished her second port and lemon. “Do you really want to know? Can’t you guess? Does this pub serve any other food apart from crisps and peanuts?”
Robbie sighed and got up. He didn’t mind going to the bar, of course, even though he resented the way she demanded feeding every five minutes. He returned with a pork pie and a rather unappetising ham sandwich. Freda had scraped around to find what was left over from the lunchtime clientele.
