by Pat Herbert
“I see,” he smiled. “Well, it’s been – er…”
“Yes, yes. I’m sure it’s been something or other. But I need to get back home now to sort out all the information I’ve managed to collect. I will be taking my findings to the police at some point, and I may need you to come with me. Back me up, so to speak.”
“Er, right. Of course. Only too pleased.”
“Anyway, I must get home. I’ve left my cat to the tender mercies of my next door neighbour so I think it’s about time I put in an appearance.”
“Oh, you have a cat, do you?” said Bernard happily, looking over at his own cat, Beelzebub, curled up asleep on the vicar’s fireside chair. “What colour is he?”
Anbolin frowned at him. “She is a Persian blue,” she said snootily. “What colour indeed!”
Bernard was puzzled. A blue-coloured cat? He’d never heard of such a thing.
“Oh, right,” he said vaguely.
Anbolin grinned mischievously at him. “You’ve no idea what a Persian blue is, have you?”
“Well, I presume it’s a cat?”
She laughed. “Yes, too right, it’s a cat. A big, fat thing with lots of long hair. But she’s a dear. I like Beelzebub,” she added, looking at him now. He had just opened his large amber eyes and was staring sleepily at her, clawing at the chair seat as he did so.
Bernard loved his cat, and was pleased that Anbolin liked him too. He was a sleek, black short hair, a stray who had found a home at the vicarage a couple of years ago, much to the chagrin of Mrs Harper. He had stayed, however, and even Mrs Harper liked him now, although she would never admit it, especially when she was attempting to remove its hairs from the furniture with the aid of the defective vacuum cleaner.
Anbolin moved to the door. “I’ll go and say goodbye to Mrs Aitch,” she said. “I must admit I’m going to miss her meals.”
I bet you will, said Bernard to himself.
“Er, do you think you could do without her?” she asked, not entirely as a joke. “I’d willingly employ her as my housekeeper, if I could.”
Bernard was astonished at the woman’s effrontery at even asking such a question. “Not on your life,” he said firmly. “Not if you paid me a million pounds.”
Anbolin grinned. “Then I think you should tell her that,” she said. “I think you take that woman for granted. She’s an absolute treasure.”
Bernard felt a little guilty. Was it true? Did he take her for granted? Robbie sometimes hinted that he did. But then, he could talk. He took his own housekeeper, Lucy Carter, for granted all the time. Especially as her duties sometimes extended to the bedroom, which Mrs Harper’s didn’t. But then, Mrs Harper was no temptation on that score. Her jam tarts and mince pies were to die for, but between the sheets, that was something not to be contemplated. She was well into her sixties, he should imagine, and no Rita Hayworth.
“Thank you, Anbolin,” he said stiffly. “I think I know how to look after my staff.”
“Oops, have I overstepped the mark, vicar?”
“No, it’s all right.” Bernard melted. She was a dear old thing, really. Ate too much, but that was her only vice. She had gone up in his estimation, anyway, because she liked cats. “I hope your stay was a pleasant one, and that you enjoyed the ghosts!” He gave her a wink.
“Oh, I loved every minute of it. At my age, I don’t do much travelling around like I used to do. I used to hold séances all over the place in the old days, but I leave that sort of thing to the younger ones, like Dorothy, now. But something like this, well it’s meat and drink to me.”
“Well, I’m glad you seem to have solved the mystery,” he said. “Have you told the Fentimans what you’ve found out, by the way?”
“Not yet,” she said. “You see, it’s rather delicate. I may have cleared their father’s name of the murder of that barmaid, but there’s still a lot of ifs and buts to sort out before I tell them.”
“I see,” said Bernard, “are you likely to let me in on these ‘ifs and buts’?”
“Not at the moment, young man. Now, I will go and have my dinner in the kitchen with Mrs Aitch and then be on my way. I’ll be in touch when I’m ready to go to the police.”
“Goodbye, then,” said Bernard, opening the door for her. “Take care of yourself.”
“I always do.”
Mrs Harper was equally delighted that Anbolin was leaving at long last, although part of her knew she was going to miss her about the place. She watched with amusement as the old lady demolished her dinner of steak and kidney pudding, mashed potatoes and greens, followed by jam roly poly and custard.
“So you’re off ’ome, then, ducks?”
Anbolin paused halfway through her jam roly poly to answer her. “Yes, I’ve cracked it.”
“Cracked it?”
She paused again. “Yes. Solved the mystery. The murder of the barmaid is just one crime I’ve solved. They hanged the wrong person, you know.”
“They did? Cor, what a turn up. Do you know who really did it, then? I mean, after all this time, ’ow can you be sure?”
“Oh, I’m sure, all right. It’s convincing the police, that’s the problem.”
“D’you think the real murderer’s still alive?”
“That I don’t know. In fact, I don’t know who the real murderer is.”
“Then how can you be sure? I mean, you tell me who didn’t do it, but shouldn’t you be able to say who did do it in order to convince people? The police, especially.”
“That, dear, is the question,” said Anbolin, scraping the last of the roly poly and custard around the plate with her spoon. “I’m hoping to point the finger without actually naming the suspect. It is quite possible to do that, you know. People get away with murder for years because no one knows who they are. If the person concerned knew I was on to them, they might get away with it again.”
Nancy Harper poured the old woman her last cup of tea under her roof, for the time being at least. “’Ere you are, ducks,” she said. “Well, I ’ope you ’ave a safe journey ’ome,” she said. “Where is that, by the way?”
“Holloway,” said Anbolin, slurping her tea. “Now, I must be off.”
Mrs Harper stood in the kitchen after Anbolin had gone and wondered why it felt so empty. She realised that she was going to miss having the old woman around, even though she never stopped complaining about her to Bernard all the time she was there. It was certainly true that absence made the heart grow fonder, in Anbolin’s case anyway.
Bernard entered the kitchen ten minutes after Anbolin had gone. He felt the emptiness too. He said nothing, however, as he slowly ate his dinner under the watchful eye of Nancy Harper.
Winter, 1937
Beryl Chambers had taken great care over her appearance that morning, and her mother was pleased with what she saw.
“Why Beryl love, you look a picture!” she said, as her daughter came into the kitchenette for her morning tea and toast. “Here you are, dear, your breakfast is all ready for you. I wish you’d have an egg or something, though. It’s bitter cold out. I could make you some porridge – it won’t take me a minute.”
“Mum, stop fussing! You know I don’t like anything apart from toast first thing in the morning.” She took a slice of toast from the rack and proceeded to butter it lightly.
Her mother knew she was wasting her breath on the subject of breakfast, so returned to the subject of her appearance. “What’s the occasion?” she said archly. “You going out tonight, then? Got a date?”
Beryl sighed, although she was inwardly pleased that her mother approved her appearance. She had taken very special care that morning, even applying lipstick and mascara. The finished result was most satisfactory she had thought, inspecting herself in the mirror. Now her mother had given her the thumbs up too. “No, mum. Don’t get carried away. I haven’t got a date or anything…”
“Is it someone at the library you want to impress then?” Her mother felt sure there was a man in the picture
, there had to be. Beryl had never taken so much trouble over her appearance before, even when she was walking out with that young Robert Farley, and who she was supposed to be very keen on. She was certainly upset when he told her he didn’t want to see her anymore, and even more upset when she had seen him with another girl the very next evening. That was a bad time. But now her daughter was looking younger and prettier than she had ever seen her, so it must be a man. Of course it must.
“No, mum,” said Beryl as patiently as she could. However, nothing could really upset her that morning. She was seeing Ernie Flagg again after work. “But, while I think of it, I may be a bit late home tonight.”
“Aha!” declared her mum. “So you have got a date.”
“Not exactly,” smiled Beryl tolerantly. “I’ll tell you all about it tonight. Now I must go or I’ll be late.”
Mrs Chambers had to be content with that. But she was very impatient to know just what was going on; something certainly was.
Later that afternoon, Inspector Flagg instructed that both his prisoners should be brought to the interview room. Robespierre and Danton Fentiman sat there staring at him, as he paced up and down the room, saying nothing.
Finally Robespierre could stand it no longer. “All right, Inspector, what’s the game? Do you intend to keep us here to watch you walk up and down all night?”
Ernie turned and faced them. “You are alike as two peas in a pod,” he observed. He remembered that that was how Beryl Chambers had described them, and it was certainly an apt expression. There was nothing to distinguish them apart, except in their dress. But that didn’t help of course. He studied both men and, except for their totally different expressions they were two sides of the same coin. But he thought he knew who was who: Danton Robespierre was a much nicer person than his brother; you only had to look into his soft, gentle eyes. They were the exact same shade of greyish-green as Robespierre’s, but the latter’s were cold and hard, and stared right through him. He knew them apart, all right, but no jury could convict a man on just the look in his eyes.
“I intend, sir, to keep you here until it suits me not to,” he said in a deep, grave voice, designed to unsettle his prisoner. “And that goes for you too, sir,” he added, looking over at Danton who was sitting quietly resigned next to his brother.
“It’s all the same to me,” he said.
There was a tap on the door shortly after this brief exchange, and PC Granger announced the arrival of Beryl Chambers.
“Send her in, man, send her in,” said Ernie impatiently. This had to work, it simply had to.
Beryl entered the room looking nervous and ill at ease. Of course, she wasn’t used to frequenting police stations, so that could account for her demeanour, although her nervousness was mainly due to seeing Ernie again. Her heart had leapt into her mouth when she saw him standing there in front of the two seated men. He wasn’t at all handsome, but there was something so reassuring and gentle in his manner, that it was all she could do not to rush into his arms. Ernie, for his part, was bowled over by her appearance. He took it all back: the woman was beautiful!
He reminded himself why Beryl was there, however, and resumed his grave stance. “Hello, Miss Chambers,” he said, almost coldly. “It is good of you to come.”
“It’s all right. It was on my way home,” she muttered, a little thrown by his manner, but then realised that he was on duty and sharing a room with at least one cold-blooded murderer.
“Good, good. Now, Miss Chambers, I know the identity parade proved a failure, and that you couldn’t pick out the man you saw that night running away from your friend’s dead body…” He paused as he saw the look of pain cross her face. What a pig he was being. He only hoped it would be worth it.
“I – I tried my best, Inspector,” she said meekly, “but, as I said, they’re as like as two peas in a – ”
“Pod,” he finished for her. “I know, I know, I completely understood.”
Robespierre interrupted them at this point. “She couldn’t tell us apart then and I’m damn sure she can’t tell us apart now, so what’s she doing here? It’s a waste of everyone’s time. You have to let us both go.”
“I certainly don’t,” said Ernie quietly. “And I’ll thank you to moderate your language in front of a lady.”
“What have I said?” Robespierre was surprised.
“Just keep quiet,” instructed Ernie. He licked his lips which were very dry. “Now, Miss Chambers, I have had enough of this act. I think you know very well which one of these men you saw. You’re shielding him, aren’t you? I’ll arrest you for obstructing the law, if you’re not careful.” His voice was like thunder now.
Beryl didn’t speak. Ernie continued to badger her. “Come on, now. Tell me. Which one of these men did you see? Tell me now or I’ll have you locked up!” He thumped the table with his fist as he said this.
Beryl stumbled back against the wall, tears burning in her eyes. “I – I swear I don’t know, Inspector. I really don’t know!”
Ernie sidled up to her and looked her in the eyes. His face was a mere inch away from hers. “Yes, you do! Tell me, or I’ll – ”
“Or you’ll what, Inspector?” Danton rose from his chair and made to move towards Ernie. “Leave her alone, you bully! She doesn’t know, but I do! That’s the man you want,” he said, pointing at Robespierre. “Now stop threatening her!”
Ernie turned and faced him; he was smiling. “Thank you. And your name is?”
“Danton. I’m Danton.”
“Thank you. You may go.”
“I’m not leaving until you let this young lady go, too,” he said gallantly.
Ernie smiled again. He knew he had been right. This man was no murderer. “Take her with you,” he said. “Take her home.”
As Danton led the shaking Beryl out of the room, Robespierre shouted after them. “You need to ask your wife about the baby, Dan. If you think it’s yours, you’ve got another think coming.”
Danton turned and stared at his brother. Then, without a word, took Beryl’s arm once more and left the cell. Ernie was left to stare eyeball to eyeball with his prisoner. He recited the necessary words at him.
“All right. You charge me with murder, if you like,” said Robespierre through gritted teeth. The fight had gone out of him, now that his brother had betrayed him. “I didn’t do it,” he added, “I didn’t, I tell you.”
“We’ll let the jury decide that,” said Ernie.
“Very well. Let them hang me,” snarled Robespierre, “but let me tell you something. My brother isn’t as innocent as he seems. Why don’t you ask him where that precious wife of his is?”
Summer, 1956
Dr Robbie MacTavish was enjoying his regular dinner time drink at the Feathers before returning home to eat the meal lovingly cooked for him by his faithful housekeeper Lucy Carter. As he sipped his whisky, gazing at Freda behind the bar, he wished for the umpteenth time that Lucy’s cooking was as good as Bernard’s Mrs Harper’s, and he thought with distaste of the overdone vegetables and half-raw meat that would be waiting for him. But for now he was content to gaze at the lovely Freda, who occasionally looked across at him and smiled. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since their dinner date the week before, and he knew he would ask her out again soon: he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Bernard wouldn’t be happy about it, but that was just a cross he was going to have to bear.
As he thought of Bernard that very man walked through the pub door and came over to join him. “Hello, old man,” Robbie greeted him, “I was just thinking about you. Usual sherry?”
Bernard sat down at his table. “Yes, please, Robbie. I see Freda’s behind the bar.”
“Well, she does work here,” Robbie pointed out, not unreasonably. “So it was only to be expected.”
“You know you’re only torturing yourself coming in here day after day. Perhaps we should go to the Crooked Billet instead.”
“The Crooked Billet!” explod
ed Robbie. “That’s a dreadful pub. Do you know they’ve got a snooker table there now?”
Bernard smiled. “I like a game of snooker myself. I used to be quite good at it.”
Robbie stood up. “I’m not going to the Crooked Billet and that’s final. I’ll get your sherry.”
“Thanks. And don’t be too long about it as Mrs Aitch will have my dinner ready soon.”
Robbie snorted and went to the bar. Bernard could be very annoying at times. What if he did spend a few minutes chatting to Freda? It was a free country, wasn’t it?
However, he soon returned with his friend’s sherry and another whisky for himself. Freda was too busy to spend chatting, but she had agreed to meet him later for a drink, as it was her night off. “Not in here though,” she had said, “let’s go to the Crooked Billet instead.”
“What a good idea,” Robbie had replied. “They’ve got a snooker table there now.”
This hadn’t impressed Freda the way it had Bernard, so he took his drinks back to his friend without further comment.
“So, Robbie, when are you seeing her again, then?”
“Eh?” Robbie was thrown for a moment. “What makes you think I’m seeing her again?”
“Come off it,” laughed Bernard, taking a sip of his sherry. “You can’t fool me. You’re so besotted with that woman, you can’t see straight.”
Robbie had to admit that it was true. He hadn’t been able to sleep for thinking about her and when he did manage to drop off there she was in his dreams.
“What am I to do, old boy?” he sighed. “I’m crazy about her.”
“She’s a married woman, Robbie, don’t forget that.”
“I know, I know.” Robbie gulped down his second whisky in one go. “I wish to heaven she wasn’t.”
“Anyway,” said Bernard, “I’ve said my say. What you do is up to you. But I think I may have the answer for you.”
“What d’you mean? Are you going to bump off her husband for me then?” He grinned at his friend over his empty glass.
“Not exactly. But I’ve just met a very nice woman who is right up your street.”
