The Dark Side of the Mirror

by Pat Herbert

  He came up beside the woman and introduced himself. She gave him a pleasant, if sad, smile.

  “I don’t remember seeing you at the funeral,” he said, standing beside her.

  “No, I didn’t know about it until I saw the obituary notice in the paper. By then it was too late. I would have liked to have been there though.”

  “It was a splendid affair,” said Bernard, “he had many friends.”

  “I’m not surprised – he was a very nice man.”

  “I thought he must be. He was a police inspector, wasn’t he? Although I suppose he must have been retired some years.”

  “Yes, I think so. Oh, I’m sorry, I’m Mrs Mossop, Beryl Mossop,” she said. They shook hands. Bernard felt an immediate empathy with this woman who he estimated was in her middle forties. She had kind almond eyes, a delicate mouth and soft chestnut hair piled in a bun on top of her head. She reminded him a little of Dorothy Plunkett, except she was a bit older.

  “What is your connection with the deceased, may I ask?”

  “Oh, I knew him some time ago, back in the late thirties,” she said. “We became quite friendly, but nothing more, really. He was already married, you see.”

  “Ah, to that wife of his,” he said meaningfully.

  “I – I never met her, but Ernie sometimes talked about her,” she said sadly. “He – he never said anything bad about her, but I could tell he was unhappy.”

  “Have you always lived here in Wandsworth?” said Bernard, as they strolled towards a bench nearby.

  “Not for at least fifteen years,” she explained, as they sat down. “I lived in Tooting then. I moved away when I got married – to Middlesbrough. I met my husband when he came into the library where I worked. He was looking for a book on medicines or something, and I helped him find what he wanted. He was lodging in Tooting at the time. He was looking after his mother who was ailing, and I think the book was to help him find something that would ease her suffering. Oh, I’m sorry, here am I rambling on. I’m sure you don’t want my whole life story!”

  “Not at all, dear lady, I am always interested in my flock. So you’re living in Yorkshire now? Are you just visiting us here, then? To see Mr Flagg’s grave?”

  “Oh no, I live here now. My husband died, you see, and left me well provided for. He was a very successful salesman, travelling in shoes – well, you know what I mean! Anyway, after the war he opened his first shoe shop in Middlesbrough, and it was so successful he opened two more within the space of a year. But I missed this part of the world, even though Yorkshire was great in some ways. But I’m a London girl at heart, so I decided to sell up and buy a small place down here. Bockhampton Road, do you know it?”

  “Oh yes, I know it,” he said quietly. “So you’ll be coming to visit Mr Flagg again, then?” he asked more brightly.

  “Oh yes. You see…” She paused. There was something about this kind vicar with the baby face and soft Bambi eyes that invited her confidence.

  “Yes?”

  “Ernie was the love of my life. I loved my husband dearly, of course, but …”

  Bernard could see a tear glistening in her eye. He patted her hand in what he hoped was his most avuncular manner. He waited for her to continue.

  “I think it would have been better if we had had children,” she said after a moment. “You see, we didn’t really belong together, if you understand me. He loved me in his way, and I could find no fault with him, but we didn’t really belong.”

  “Do you mean that you married him on the rebound – I think that’s the expression?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say that, vicar,” said Beryl, smiling now. “But I knew there was no future for Ernie and me, and Jack – my husband – was a nice-looking man who didn’t drop me after the first date…”

  “I can’t imagine any man dropping you after a first date,” said Bernard at once. She was a very pleasant woman; she must have had men falling at her feet twenty years ago.

  “Oh, thank you for saying that, but you’d be surprised. I suppose I wasn’t very scintillating company most of the time. There was no shortage of men asking me out because I suppose I was reasonably good looking in those days. But they soon lost interest in me, until Jack, that is. I knew I couldn’t do any better than Jack, if I couldn’t have Ernie, and my mum was worried that I’d become an old maid, stuck on the shelf forever. Also I had just qualified as a chartered librarian, and, well, you know what they say about female librarians …”

  “No, dear. What do they say?”

  “Oh, all pince-nez and primness. Spinsterish and repressed. I didn’t want to live up to that. But well, now, I’d like to get a job around here. I’ve written to all the local libraries offering my services, so I’m just waiting to hear.”

  Bernard began to admire her even more. It was difficult for women who wanted something more out of life than just being a housewife and mother. If a man wanted to marry you, he supposed most women would consider that a victory, and an end to all their troubles. Most of the time it was just the beginning of them. But now she was a widow she was determined to stand on her own two feet, even though she probably didn’t need to work because of her late husband’s success with shoes.

  He looked at his watch and saw that it was nearly time for the mid-week service. “Are you coming to the service this evening?” he asked her.

  She stood up and took his arm as they sauntered out of the churchyard. “Thank you, vicar, but I won’t, if you don’t mind. I’m not a very regular churchgoer, I’m afraid. I’m not all that sure I believe in God.”

  He stopped and looked at her kindly. “I understand. But if you ever want to talk or – anything, please feel free to come to the vicarage for tea. Mrs Harper – my housekeeper – makes delicious cakes.”

  Beryl laughed. “I’ll bear it in mind, vicar. Now, I’ve held you up for too long.”

  “Not at all, goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.” She turned as she reached the corner of the street and gave him a wave.

  What a very nice woman, he thought. He could bet that Robbie would find her so too. She was a widow, and about the right age for him. Stop it, Bernie, he admonished himself. He was a vicar, not a matchmaker. He could safely leave that sort of thing to the Mrs Harpers of this world.

  Autumn, 1936

  Ursula Trevor twitched back the lace curtain at her sparkling clean windows and peered out into the fast darkening evening. A moment before she had heard the click of her next door neighbour’s front gate and she knew that the trollop was off to ‘work’ again. Ursula Trevor took more than an inordinate amount of interest in her neighbours’ doings, especially the wife’s. She knew, even though she was sure Colin Mortimer didn’t, that Dulcie was no more going to work than flying to the moon: she was off to meet her fancy man.

  She watched as the lady in question set off down the street, her stacked heels echoing loudly on the damp pavement. She was clad in a very flimsy, figure-hugging dress which left nothing to the imagination. Ursula sniffed as she thought how cold the stupid woman must be in that get-up. She hoped she got pneumonia, the brazen hussy.

  When Dulcie had turned the corner, Ursula went into the hall and checked her make-up in the mirror. She then donned her coat and hat and walked out into the night. She didn’t have far to go, however, as she turned to her immediate right and strode up the path to the Mortimers’ front door. Colin opened it slowly.

  “Hello, Mrs Trevor,” he said wearily. “What brings you out on a night like this?”

  It was certainly cold enough for a bit of snow, even though it wasn’t even November yet. Ursula thought that Mrs Mortimer was even more likely to catch pneumonia now. She was glad of her coat and hat, even though she had only walked a few yards.

  “I saw your missus going up the road,” she said. “She’ll catch her death in that dress.”

  “That’s what I told her,” said Colin, “but she assured me she wasn’t cold. Anyway the pub’s only round the corner, so I suppose
she’ll be all right.” He paused and looked at her. She returned the look but said nothing.

  “Do you want to come in?” he said, finally breaking the silence. The woman was always coming round in the evenings when his wife wasn’t there; he wasn’t sure what she was after, but he could probably guess. She was a youngish widow with nothing to occupy her in the long, dark nights. Colin could actually do with the company as well as help with his daughter if she woke up or seemed fractious or ill. He was always worried he wouldn’t know what to do in those circumstances. Fortunately, little Freddie generally fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow and didn’t wake up until the morning. She had been a difficult baby, waking up on the hour every hour, but now she was sleeping through, for which he was extremely grateful.

  Once inside, Ursula busied herself in the kitchen, mashing tea and searching out the biscuits. It was a routine that both she and Colin were becoming used to.

  “Doesn’t Dulcie ever get a night off, Colin?” she asked, as she brought the tea through to the parlour.

  Colin sighed. “Doesn’t seem to. I think she volunteers for overtime because she doesn’t like spending the evenings with me.”

  “She doesn’t know when she’s well off, that one,” said Ursula meaningfully. “Leaving a nice husband like you to fend for himself. She may live to regret it one of these fine days.”

  “Just what do you mean by that?”

  Colin wasn’t sure whether he liked Ursula Trevor or not; she was certainly an attractive woman, if a little stout. He sometimes wondered if he would get up the nerve to make some sort of a pass at her. She was quite straitlaced in her manners and opinions, so he had so far never made a move. But this last remark of hers was full of meaning.

  “Well, I mean, leaving you all on your own night after night while she fraternises with all and sundry – at the pub.” And everywhere else, she had no doubt, although she didn’t say this out loud. She had followed her on several occasions and watched as she strode straight past the pub and on up the high street to the Plaza cinema. And there was that bloke waiting for her. She’d seen them kissing in public; it was obscene.

  “It’s her job, Mrs Trevor,” said Colin, sipping his tea. He had to admit she made a better brew than his wife. Hers was always weak and insipid: someone said it was like gnat’s piss and he had to admit that it was. “She has to keep the customers happy.”

  “I’m sure she does,” said Ursula snidely. “Why don’t you call me Ursula, Colin?” She stirred her tea slowly, and looked at him through half-closed lids in what she believed was a sexy manner; she’d seen Myrna Loy do it a film recently and William Powell had kissed her. She’d like William Powell to kiss her too but, failing that, why not Colin Mortimer? He wasn’t dashing like that film star, but he was presentable enough and it was obvious Dulcie didn’t want him.

  Colin coughed nervously. Why was the woman looking at him in that cross-eyed way, he wondered. Makes her look like a pregnant duck. “Er- yes, of course. Ursula.”

  There was an awkward silence as Ursula continued to make eyes at him over her teacup. Finally he said, “I was listening to the news earlier this evening,” he said. “That Adolf Hitler chappie seems to be making his presence felt. Doesn’t like our PM that’s for sure. I think he plans to take over the world.”

  “Who?”

  “Adolf Hitler. Surely you’ve heard him on the wireless news? He’s in all the papers. He’s the German leader – the Fuhrer, and he’s always making speeches at rallies. They all dress up in brown shirts with that funny cross on it – the National Socialist party. Surely you’ve heard of him?”

  Ursula shrugged. He didn’t feature in her Woman’s Weekly, so how would she know? “Do you want more tea?”

  “No thanks.” Colin could only marvel at how she could live like an ostrich, with her head in the sand. He, for one, was very worried about the strange little man with the tiny moustache and flicked hairdo. He gave him the creeps.

  “You should ask your wife where she goes every night,” said Ursula, trying to get back to a much more interesting topic.

  “I know where she goes, thank you. And it’s none of your business.”

  “Hoity-toity,” said Ursula, stumping out her cigarette in her saucer. “She can’t work every night – even Sundays, can she?”

  “Just what are you trying to say? Out with it.”

  “Oh, nothing. As you so rightly said, it’s none of my business.” She rose to go. That was enough for tonight. She had sown the seed. Colin Mortimer would now mull it over in his mind and the doubts would soon creep in.

  “I’ll leave you in peace,” she said. “It’s nearly nine o’clock anyway. Time for the news. Perhaps you’ll hear more about your precious Hitler on it.” This was said with some sarcasm which wasn’t lost on Colin.

  He showed her out and sat down again. He didn’t switch the news on, however, as his mind was racing. The doings of Mr Hitler would have to take a back seat for the time being.

  Summer, 1956

  Anbolin Amery-Judge was nothing if not thorough in her researches. The 1936 murder case involving a young barmaid and a well-to-do married man had been a scandal of immense proportions at the time, and there was a lot of press coverage. Anbolin had availed herself of all the reportage via the local reference library, and she had all the relevant facts at her stubby, little fingertips. Even the gossip that was rife then had somehow made its way into the papers, especially the local ones. So the old lady had all the information she needed to solve the crime. She knew that Robespierre Fentiman, a thoroughly nasty bit of work in her opinion, was, however, not guilty of killing Dulcie Mortimer. She also knew that Danton Fentiman, a very nice class of gentleman in her opinion, was not guilty of the crime he had been hanged for. All that was a given. But she didn’t know who was responsible for either crime, and that was really bothering her.

  She had been able to make contact with both brothers in Carl Fentiman’s shed and, from what she could piece together from both men, she knew she was looking at two murders that remained unsolved. Not according to the police of course, as the men tried and convicted had both been despatched by the hangman’s rope. Anbolin knew better however. There were two murderers still unaccounted for, even still alive; it was very possible. Who were they and where were they? She must find out somehow. But how?

  It was the fifth time she had visited the shed that summer at the vicarage, never sure which brother would be there to talk to her. Today it was the turn of Danton Fentiman to appear; he seemed agitated.

  “You’re a dear, sweet old lady …” he began.

  “Less of the ‘sweet’,” she interjected.

  “Er, sorry. As I was saying, you’re a dear old lady and I know you mean well, but I think you should give up trying to clear my brother’s name. He’s not worth it.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you,” said Anbolin, removing her knitting from her bag as usual. “But what about you? I don’t believe for one moment that you’re capable of murder either.”

  “They hanged me, didn’t they? A jury of twelve men thought I was.” He sounded bitter. “But anyway, I was glad to die. There was nothing left for me to live for anyway.”

  “But what about your nephews?”

  “What about them? I’m sorry for Basil – that he has to live with the stigma of having both a father and uncle hanged for murder. But I couldn’t care less about Carl, he was always a wrong ’un in my opinion. Always up to no good, the little b…”

  “I see. But why were you glad to hang? You can’t seriously expect me to believe that.” Anbolin studied her latest knitting row and sighed, debating whether to cast off and start again.

  “I suppose it was because my wife …”

  “Ah, yes. Your wife. The lovely Charmian.” There was a sarcastic edge to her tone.

  “You don’t sound very enamoured of her,” said Danton, swinging around on his rope.

  “I’m not. In my opinion, she was no better t
han she should be.”

  “What does that mean? People were always saying that to me, and I never understood it.”

  “That’s because you were an innocent in a world full of evil. Especially then.”

  “Why ‘especially then’?”

  “Hitler was mobilising his troops all over Europe, lad.”

  “I don’t think I was taking much notice of what was going on then.”

  “I can understand that.” Anbolin nodded her head sagely. “But I want to clear your name, even if you don’t. And it would help Basil, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’d like to help, but I don’t see how I can. I didn’t murder my wife, and I don’t know who did. Why not leave it alone? Forget about it. I have.”

  “No you haven’t, or else why would you be here?”

  “Because you made me,” said Danton, a little crossly now. “And I’m tired. I want to rest in peace. Leave me alone.”

  With that, he slowly disappeared before her eyes. It was like watching the Indian rope trick.

  Anbolin was now alone in the shed, a thoughtful expression on her face. Then a light seemed to dawn across it. “You may not know who killed your wife, my lad,” she said to herself, “but I think I do – now.”

  Basil Fentiman was a mild-mannered individual, the kind whom people usually describe as not capable of hurting a fly. Today, however, he felt as if he could hurt a fly, and not only one, at least half a dozen of them. Why did Carl have to allow that priest and silly old woman to invade his garden shed to talk to the ghosts of his father and uncle? What purpose would it serve? And whoever heard of such goings on? The world had gone mad. Basil Fentiman had had enough and that was why he was outside the vicarage, thumb on doorbell, ready to have an argument with the incumbent therein.

  Mrs Harper opened the door to him. “All right, all right!” she said, “Keep your bloomin’ ’air on, can’t you? Where’s the fire? I’ve only got one pair of ’ands – and feet, come to that. ’Ow d’you expect me to get to the front door so quick? As you can see, I ain’t a spring chicken, so there’s no need to keep pressing the flippin’ bell.”