The Dark Side of the Mirror

by Pat Herbert

  Basil realised he still had his finger on the bell and removed it instantly. He was so fired up, he couldn’t think straight.

  “I apologise, madam,” he said at once. “I didn’t mean to …”

  “All right. No need to explain. Just tell me what your business is ’ere.” Mrs Harper had been interrupted in her cake making and Basil, despite his temper, couldn’t help smiling at the smut of flour on the end of her nose. She was trying to appear dignified, and it just wasn’t working.

  “I would like to see the vicar, please,” he said, trying to keep a straight face. She was a duck and no mistake. He wanted to take her in his arms and give her a big hug. He knew exactly the type of woman she was: all bark and no bite, and the salt of the earth. He wished there were more people like her in the world; it would be a much better place.

  Mrs Harper gave one of her sniffs. “You’d better come in,” she said grudgingly. “I’ll see if ’e’s free. Who shall I say you are?”

  “Mr Fentiman,” said Basil, stepping into the hallway, dripping his wet umbrella on what Mrs Harper liked to call the ‘parquet’. In fact, it was a plain wooden floor.

  “So it’s raining then,” she observed unnecessarily. “Give me your brolly – I’ll put it in the kitchen sink before it does any more damage to the parquet.”

  Bernard wasn’t best pleased by the interruption, especially as he didn’t like Carl Fentiman one bit, nor his horrible baby twins. His ruined trousers still rankled.

  “Did he say what he wanted, Mrs Aitch?” Bernard had been reading a racy detective novel when Mrs Harper barged in without knocking, announcing that Fentiman wanted to see him. Blast the fellow, he thought crossly. He was in the middle of a very exciting chapter, and the fourth dead body had just turned up.

  “Didn’t ask,” said Nancy Harper unashamedly. “Do you want ’im up ’ere or what?”

  “I suppose I’d better see him,” sighed Bernard, putting his silk book mark in between the pages. All this business with the man’s hanged father was getting on his nerves now. There didn’t seem to be any end to the conversations Anbolin was having with him in Carl’s shed, and while she still visited the place, she remained under his roof devouring all his food.

  Basil Fentiman looked less cross and more apologetic when Mrs Harper pushed him into Bernard’s study. “Don’t outstay your welcome,” she advised. “The vicar’s a busy man.”

  Basil felt decidedly uncomfortable now he was face to face with Bernard. He had come to complain about all the raking up of his shameful past, but this pleasant-looking man didn’t seem to deserve it. After all, he had been asked by his brother to investigate the haunting in the first place.

  “Hello, Mr Fentiman,” said Bernard coldly. “What can I do for you?”

  “Er, well, I …”

  Bernard didn’t want to encourage him to stay, but he couldn’t let him stand there, looking awkward. “Please take a seat,” he said at last.

  “Th-thank you,” said Basil gratefully. “Awful day,” he added, staring out at the summer rain which was even more like a monsoon than ever now.

  “We need it, though,” said Bernard. “The grass is looking very yellow these days.”

  “Indeed.”

  Bernard was puzzled. This wasn’t the Carl Fentiman he had come to know and expect. The few occasions when he had met the man had shown him to be a slightly unsavoury character, rather sarcastic and generally oblivious to other people’s feelings. Rude and crude, in other words. But now he seemed a polite, sensitive man, sitting on the edge of the proffered seat, hat in hand, talking about the weather.

  “I – I’m sorry to bother you, vicar,” he said, “but I wanted to ask you to stop all this investigating my father’s crime. I know he says he wasn’t guilty, but even if he wasn’t technically guilty, morally he hadn’t a leg to stand on.”

  Bernard was even more puzzled now. “But it was you who came to me in the first place, when your father appeared to you in your shed. Are you saying that you wish you hadn’t started all this?”

  Basil suddenly realised what was wrong. Bernard thought he was his brother. A natural mistake, of course, and one he was used to. Then he remembered he had announced himself only as ‘Mr Fentiman’, which was foolish. After all, he didn’t want to be taken for his useless brother and it was no wonder that this nice vicar chap had greeted him so coldly.

  “Oh, no, I’m sorry, my fault entirely,” he laughed. “I’m not Carl, I’m his twin brother, Basil.”

  Bernard laughed too. “Of course!” he said. “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “Er – oh, nothing.”

  Basil knew exactly what it explained: the vicar hadn’t taken to Carl; not many people did.

  “Anyway, as I was saying. Can we stop your old lady medium friend from keep investigating this? She seems to enjoy having conversations with my dead father and now, apparently, my dead uncle is getting in on the act.”

  “Yes, so I understand. Your uncle was also hanged for murder. Two in one family is most unfortunate, but you shouldn’t let it blight your own lives. You may be their sons and nephews, but you were only boys at the time. It’s nothing to do with you what these men did – or didn’t do.”

  “I know in theory that’s true. But it’s hard to live this sort of thing down. And now all this raking up of the past is not helping. Don’t you see?”

  Bernard sympathised. What good could it do the dead men now anyway? Even if they were exonerated, they couldn’t be brought back to life. But it would help the brothers to know that neither relative had actually murdered anyone after all. He pointed this out to his worried visitor.

  “I wouldn’t mind finding out that Uncle Dan wasn’t guilty of the murder of his wife,” he said slowly. “I remember him. He was a gentle, kind man, not at all the type to bump off his wife. I didn’t like my aunt all that much, she seemed rather aloof and too full of herself. Maybe he did kill her, but if he did, I don’t think I would blame him. We didn’t know the half of it at the time, although it did come out about the baby not being my uncle’s. That could have tipped him over the edge.”

  “Yes, it certainly could. But he has told Anbolin – you know, my medium friend, that he didn’t do it.”

  “So I understand. And I don’t think he would lie about it. After all, what would be the point?”

  Bernard leaned forward in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. “I notice you didn’t say you wanted to clear your father’s name. Do you think he was guilty then?”

  Basil thought for a moment before he spoke. “I didn’t like my father very much. He wasn’t a nice man. It’s awful to say that about one’s own father, isn’t it?”

  Bernard gave a non-committal shrug. “I don’t suppose any child of Jack the Ripper could be blamed for not liking him – er, not that I’m comparing your father with Jack the Ripper…”

  Basil laughed. “Perhaps not quite,” he admitted. “But my mother told me lots of tales about him after he was hanged. If all she said was true, then he deserved the hangman’s rope.”

  “Tell me, did your brother dislike him as much as you?”

  “No, not at all. They got on like a house on fire. I know this is going to sound awful, too. But I don’t like my brother either. Chip off the old block, if you ask me.”

  Bernard wasn’t surprised at this reply. He sat back in his chair and lit his pipe. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, indicating the briar. “It helps me to think.”

  “Like Sherlock Holmes,” smiled Basil. “I hope you don’t go in for the more unsavoury things he took, though.” He said this with a wink.

  “I should say not,” said Bernard in all seriousness.

  “Only pulling your leg.”

  Bernard liked Basil Fentiman very much now. How could two people, born at almost the same time from the same two parents, be so different? And it seemed that this had been perpetuated in the family if Danton and Robespierre were anything to g
o by.

  Basil got up to leave. “Well, I must go, I’ve taken up too much of your time, already, vicar. Thank you for seeing me. I know you’ll do what’s right in this matter.”

  Bernard stood up to show him out. “I will try. But things have gone a little too far to just stop now. Anbolin has got the bit between her teeth and is determined to find out the truth. I rather want to find it out myself. Perhaps, deep down, you do too?”

  “Perhaps … But it’s so painful for me.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. But it may be worth it in the end.”

  Basil smiled and said goodbye. He liked the friendly vicar, but didn’t think he had any hope of finding out the truth after all this time. And, if he could have read Bernard’s thoughts, he would have known that he agreed with him.

  Winter, 1937

  Inspector Ernie Flagg sat at his desk, staring out of the window at the snow that had just started again. It was the middle of January and he had never felt so cold. The fact that his office window didn’t shut properly didn’t help, and the paraffin stove gave off no heat, only a noxious smell. He huddled closer into his jacket. He must remind his wife to put out his thicker socks for tomorrow. She never remembered these little things, and he could never find his clothes himself as she always put them in different places. He sometimes thought she did it on purpose.

  When he was able to concentrate on the file in front of him with the aid of a hot mug of tea kindly brought to him by young PC Granger, one of his favourite protegés, he opened it up and stared at the two names: Robespierre Fentiman and Danton Fentiman. They were still in custody, both charged with the murder of Dulcie Mortimer, but he was worried that their respective lawyers would find some loophole or other to get them off. He had to find out who was the right one before that happened.

  Suddenly he snapped the file shut and stood up. Grabbing his coat, hat and woolly scarf he bundled himself up and went out into the icy, cold night. He checked his watch: eight-fifteen. Beryl would hopefully be home from work by now. He strode along the road, determination etched into every pore. He had a plan but it all hinged on Beryl’s cooperation; if she could be persuaded to help, he would have his murderer.

  Beryl’s mother opened the door to him. His heart sank as he saw that she didn’t view his presence with favour. In fact, she positively glared at him.

  “This is a fine time to come calling, isn’t it?” she said sternly.

  Ernie tutted to himself; there was no respect for the police these days. “Er, yes, I’m sorry, Mrs Chambers, but it is quite important that I have a word with your daughter…”

  “Who is it, mum?” Ernie heard Beryl’s voice echo down the hall. “Let them in or send them packing, only you’re letting all the cold air in.”

  “It’s that police inspector, love,” called Mrs Chambers over her shoulder.

  “Well, let him in then. Don’t leave him out there in the cold.”

  Thank you, Beryl, said Ernie to himself as her mother grudgingly let him into the hall. “Make sure you wipe your feet,” she instructed.

  Once inside the warm and welcoming parlour, he was even more struck by Beryl’s pleasant appearance. She was no beauty, but she radiated a charm that was worth a thousand beautiful faces, well to him anyway.

  “I’m really sorry to call so late,” he said, as she offered him a seat by the fire. “But I really needed to see you.”

  “Don’t mention it, inspector,” smiled Beryl. “Would you like some tea, or maybe something stronger? I think we’ve some cherry brandy left over from Christmas.”

  Ernie Flagg would have welcomed the warmth of the cherry brandy, but the look in Mrs Chambers’ eye checked him just in time. “Er, tea will be fine,” he said meekly.

  Mrs Chambers nodded. “Or would you prefer cocoa?” she said, almost sarcastically. She wasn’t fooled; the police inspector wanted the cherry brandy but was too scared to say so.

  “No – no, tea, please, Mrs Chambers.”

  When they were left alone, Beryl smiled again at Ernie. She liked him all the more this evening, even with his red nose which had more to do with the icy conditions than a love of alcohol. He looked sad and gentle, and his eyes were kind.

  “Now, how can I help you this time, inspector?”

  Ernie cleared his throat. He didn’t know how she would react to what he was about to suggest, and he was very nervous. Supposing she flew off the handle and told him never to darken her door again? He couldn’t bear the thought of that.

  When Ernie had left, Mrs Chambers sat in the chair he had vacated and smiled at her daughter.

  “He’s got his eye on you, my girl, make no mistake.”

  Beryl seemed lost in thought. “Er – what did you say, mum?”

  “I said that man’s got his eye on you.”

  “Oh, come off it, mum. He’s married.”

  “Since when did that stop any man, you tell me that.”

  “He – he does seem to like me, I suppose…” she said, almost to herself.

  “What did you say?” Her mother was a little hard of hearing.

  “I – I was agreeing with you.”

  Mrs Chambers laughed. “That makes a rare change,” she said. “I had to laugh when you offered him the cherry brandy. He had to say no because he was frightened of me.”

  “Oh, don’t be so silly,” said Beryl with impatience. “He was still on duty. The police aren’t supposed to drink while on duty.”

  “I don’t think he was on duty,” said her mother wisely. “What did he want, anyway? Apart from you, of course.”

  “I – I mustn’t say anything, mum, sorry. Not even to you – not yet, anyway.”

  “Has he asked you out then?” said Mrs Chambers flippantly. “You should go. You never know, he might leave his wife for you.”

  “For God’s sake, mum, leave off about him fancying me. It was purely an official matter.”

  Mrs Chambers looked askance at her only daughter. She was only three years old when her father abandoned them for a hairdresser, and ever since then her one goal in life was to see that her precious daughter didn’t endure the kind of heartbreak she herself had gone through. But as each day passed, and her child grew up, she saw that beauty wasn’t to be one of her gifts, even though she was tall and willowy, with lovely thick hair. A bit of make-up would have helped, but Beryl refused to apply even the merest hint of powder.

  Beryl’s love life wasn’t exactly successful, by any standards, added to which she had decided to become a librarian. Mrs Chambers thought this was tantamount to admitting she was to remain a spinster all her life. She sniffed as she remembered their many evenings by the fireside together, Beryl’s one love being reading. She had devoured ‘David Copperfield’ when she was only eight years old. As far as her mother was concerned, there was no hope for her after that. She was destined to be a bookish, man-shy woman, taking refuge behind the counter of the lending library.

  But now there was a light on the horizon in the shape of Inspector Ernie Flagg. She could see the man was interested in her, not just as a valuable witness, but also as a woman. She could also see that Beryl wasn’t entirely indifferent to him. The fly in the proverbial ointment, of course, was the fact that he was already married, but Mrs Chambers didn’t see that as necessarily an end to the matter, even if her daughter did.

  “Come on, Beryl, what did he really want?”

  “I can’t say, mum. Not yet. Maybe later.”

  With that, she left the room, running upstairs to her bedroom. She closed the door quietly and went and sat at her dressing table mirror. She looked at herself in the glass, her heart thumping, and saw her cheeks were flushed which, far from detracting from her appearance, gave her a healthy glow she very rarely possessed. Her eyes were sparkling too. She touched her burning cheek and smiled at herself.

  Oh stop it, Beryl, she muttered, he’s not interested in you. He’s married. He only wants you to help him catch a murderer. He wouldn’t want to know you, otherwise. She
said this to herself over and over, but somehow couldn’t quite believe it.

  Summer, 1956

  Anbolin Amery-Judge smiled with satisfaction. She was sure she had solved two murders now. There had been not one, but two, miscarriages of justice, to her mind, although she wasn’t sure how easy it would be to convince the police of that, especially after all this time. But she intended to try.

  She knocked on Bernard’s study door and, unlike Mrs Harper who never did, waited to be invited in.

  Bernard looked up from his desk, and tutted with impatience. How was he supposed to write his next sermon with all these interruptions? He had already had occasion that morning to admonish his housekeeper for making a noise on the landing with the ancient vacuum cleaner. He ignored the fact, supplied by Mrs Harper, that it was so noisy because it was so old. He didn’t have the money to waste on fripperies like new vacuum cleaners. His stipend didn’t stretch that far, what with the expense of the bottle of Glenfiddich he regularly incurred. Not that he drank the whisky himself, of course, but Robbie always enjoyed a glass or two when he visited, which was usually three or four times a week after his evening surgery.

  Now it was the turn of that old biddy to interrupt him, and who seemed to be a permanent fixture now. She had arrived in June and it was now the middle of August. Surely it was about time she went home? He couldn’t even remember why she was there in the first place, except for that annoying man’s visit and then seeing the ghost of his father hanging in his garden shed. From then on, it seemed that Anbolin had taken over and seemed to be playing all her cards close to her very ample chest.

  “Sorry to disturb you, governor,” said Anbolin light-heartedly. “I can see you’re busy, but I just wanted to let you know I’ll be leaving after dinner.”

  Bernard’s heart leapt. At last! But why couldn’t she leave before dinner? Well, he didn’t really need an answer to that.