by Pat Herbert
“Right up my street? Not literally, I take it?”
“No, no, of course not. She doesn’t live far from you, though. She’s just moved back to London from Yorkshire. She’s a widow, and a very attractive one, too. About the right age for you, Robbie. Twenty-year-olds are all well and good, but what can you really have in common with them?”
Robbie ignored this last comment. “Are you trying to match-make, Bernie? You really shouldn’t, you know. Interfering in people’s private lives usually ends in tears. Oh all right, I’ll buy it. What’s her name?”
“Name?” Bernard was notoriously bad at remembering names. He didn’t even know that his housekeeper’s Christian name was Nancy, although he had been told often enough. He called her ‘Mrs Aitch’ but it was generally suspected that he didn’t know what that stood for either. “Er – wait, I’ll remember it in a minute. Mossop – that’s it. Mossop.”
“Mossop? Does she have a Christian name, then?”
“Er, yes. I remember it was a jewel of some kind. Ruby, I think…”
“Ruby Mossop – hmm. Sounds like a charlady.”
“Oh, you’re such a snob, Robbie. No, it wasn’t Ruby – er, Beryl – that’s it. Beryl Mossop.”
“That’s not much better. I think I prefer Ruby, on balance. Anyway she doesn’t sound my type at all.”
“I think you’d change your mind if you met her.”
“Maybe. How did you meet her, by the way?”
“Didn’t I say? No, well, she was standing at a grave in the churchyard. It was someone I had buried last weekend.”
“Do you remember who that was?”
“Is it important? More important is the fact that she’s a widow, on her own, and one I think you’ll take a shine to.”
“All right, if you say so. But how do you intend to bring about a meeting between us?”
“Ernie Flagg – that’s the chappie.”
“What? What are you talking about now?” Robbie was becoming exasperated.
“You asked whose grave it was.”
“Oh, right. Yes, I see. That name rings a bell, you know.”
“Ernie Flagg? Funnily enough I didn’t have a problem remembering that name myself. Rings a slight bell with me, too, don’t know why.”
Robbie suddenly snapped his fingers. “Of course! Wasn’t he the arresting officer involved in the Fentiman case? I’m sure I read that in the newspaper articles Anbolin got hold of.”
Bernard looked at him. “Yes, of course, that’s right. What a coincidence!”
“So, what relationship does this Beryl Mossop have to Ernie Flagg?”
“She was in love with him. They fell in love a long time ago, but he was already married. Then she met this Mossop and married him. He was a Yorkshireman, so she moved there shortly after. She said that he owned a chain of shoe shops up there – not right away, but he became successful. So she’s well off now. Another plus point, wouldn’t you say?”
“Has she got any children?”
“No. So, you see, Robbie. She’s as free as a bird – and so are you.” He didn’t mention Lucy Carter, because that was a relationship that Robbie liked to think was shrouded in mystery. Bernard suspected that his friend took advantage of Lucy’s good nature in more ways than one, but it was an unspoken subject between them. Bernard believed that Lucy was in love with Robbie, but that Robbie didn’t return that affection in the same way. He secretly sympathised with Lucy, but had long ago given up the hope, slender as it was, that Robbie would make an honest woman of her. Keeping his friend on the straight and narrow became more difficult with every day that passed.
“Well, it would be very interesting to meet her, especially as she knew this Inspector Flagg. She may know more about the case than we do.”
“Is that the only reason you want to meet her?”
Robbie thought for a moment. “Not necessarily. I must admit to being a little curious about her after what you said. Is she really attractive? How old is she?”
Bernard wrinkled his brow and sipped the last of his sweet sherry. “She’s probably in her mid to late forties, I should think, but she’s very well preserved.”
“You make her sound like a museum exhibit, old boy. Anyhow, that makes her older than me by a mile.”
“So what? Only by a few years. Not twenty as in the case of you and your lovely barmaid. And she’s no museum piece, I do assure you.”
“Hmm,” was all Robbie said to that.
Winter, 1937
Ernie Flagg was puzzled. He was a man used to trusting his instincts, and they were very rarely wrong. All through the complicated twists and turns of uncovering the murderer of Dulcie Mortimer, he was sure in Robespierre Fentiman he had his man. His twin brother, Danton, wasn’t capable, in his opinion, of committing such a dreadful act. The knife that had been used in the murder had been twisted several times in the stomach which could only have been perpetrated by someone with a deep hatred of his victim. Danton Robespierre couldn’t possibly have done it. He knew it all along, but he had to find a way of breaking the bond of silence between the twins. That had been where Beryl Chambers had come in.
He had hated doing it to her. He had asked her to help him identify the real killer, and he had told her that only she could do it. But, she had pointed out, she couldn’t possibly identify him: the twins were identical in every particular. She had tried, oh how she had tried, but in the end had failed. But Ernie had insisted that, if she came to the police station again, and saw the two men, something would help her to pick out the right one. He hadn’t told her exactly how he was going to get her to achieve this, because he knew that if he did, his plan might not work.
She had to be genuinely upset by his cross-questioning of her. She had to cry, to be scared of him even. Then the true nature of the decent one of the two men wouldn’t be able to stand by and let that continue. And he had been right: Danton had capitulated. He couldn’t bear to see the poor, vulnerable female in Ernie’s charge be treated like that. He had to tell the truth.
So, he had been proved right. Robespierre would have been content to watch poor Beryl get more and more upset; he would have just sat there and held his tongue. Not so, his decent, honourable brother. But then, Robespierre had said something that worried him deeply. What was that about his wife? Danton had told him that he was sad, depressed. His wife had left him. Gone off without a word, apparently. Robespierre had intimated that Danton wasn’t so innocent as he seemed. Could he know something about the disappearance of Mrs Danton Fentiman? There had been no inquiries made as to where she had gone, but then the brothers had been hauled into the police station very shortly after she had gone. He must talk to Danton, the sooner the better.
So, with this aim in mind, he set off for Danton’s house in Elsiemaud Road, Tooting. The rain was easing off as he turned the corner into his road, and the sun was just making an effort to appear. Not a very successful effort, but the damp, worried inspector was grateful for even that attempt. He rang the doorbell and it echoed hollowly through the hall. He looked around at the ivy-covered walls and little picture windows. It looked very much as if a woman’s touch had been at work, but not lately. There was an indefinable air of neglect about it now, but then it would seem that a woman was no longer living there.
He rang the bell again. It was half past seven in the morning, so he presumed Danton wouldn’t have left for work yet. If he was going to work, of course. Maybe he had been sacked, what with all this adverse publicity. Even though he had been released without charge, mud always stuck, in the inspector’s experience. It was a rum old world, and no mistake.
This time his ring was answered. A bleary-eyed Danton Fentiman blinked at him through the half-open door.
“Who is it? Oh, it’s you, inspector. Have you come to arrest me again?” Danton felt sure he hadn’t heard the last of the whole sorry mess. He knew his brother would find a way to implicate him again, if he possibly could. And he knew, of old, that his brother adde
d deviousness to his list of unpalatable attributes.
“No, sir. Not unless you wish to confess to something.” He tried a little laugh, but it didn’t quite come off. “May I come in for a moment?”
“Yes, of course. I – I’m sorry. The place is in rather a mess. My wife – er…” He trailed off as Ernie was led into a small parlour that once could have been described as cosy and inviting. It was neither of those things now. There was a film of dust everywhere and dead flowers in a vase. They had shed their petals all over the floor. The clock had stopped ticking, and there were newspapers and magazines strewn all over the sofa and occasional table. Nothing looked right. It was one of the saddest sights the inspector had ever seen.
He coughed politely. “No matter, sir,” he said. “I won’t keep you. I suppose you’re going to work soon?” He crossed his fingers behind his back. He didn’t want Danton to be without a job; he didn’t deserve it.
Danton gave a laugh as hollow as the front door bell had sounded earlier. “You must be joking, inspector,” he said. “The Mutual Friendly Accident and Life Society hasn’t been particularly friendly towards me. It doesn’t like employing suspected murderers, you know. They’ve got their reputation to consider.” He gave a sniff. Ernie could see the man was on the verge of tears.
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” said Ernie sincerely. “But now that you’re in the clear, surely they’ll reinstate you?”
Danton sniffed again. “How does that saying go, inspector? There no smoke without fire? And, anyway, I did try to pervert the course of justice, didn’t I? I don’t blame them, really. I think I’ll move away and start again somewhere else. Grimsby, perhaps. Sounds like the sort of place that would suit me down to the ground. Grim –sby.”
“Things are not as bad as that, are they?” Ernie seated himself on the edge of the littered sofa, while Danton remained standing with his arm on the mantelpiece.
“This clock needs winding up,” he said absently. With regard to whether things were ‘as bad as that’, he didn’t respond.
“Have you – er, have you heard from your wife, at all, Mr Fentiman?”
Danton stared down at him. He studied the man carefully. Nice-looking, he noticed. Not really like a copper at all; at least not his idea of what a copper should look like. He looked a bit damp in his raincoat though.
“No, inspector. I haven’t heard from her at all.”
“Have you tried to find out where she’s gone?”
“Of course I have. But, what with being held in a police cell for days, I haven’t really had much time to check. I phoned her mother when I got home last night, but she hadn’t gone there. And now her parents are worried too.”
“Has she got any friends she might have gone to?”
“She didn’t really seem to have many friends,” said Danton thoughtfully. “I think she didn’t like women much. Preferred the company of men, I suspect. She was so pretty, you see –“
“I notice you’re talking of her in the past tense, sir,” said Ernie quietly.
“Well, er, yes. Well, she’s not here, is she?”
“Quite. Have you any idea why she would have left without a word? Didn’t she even leave you a note?”
“No. Nothing. That’s what’s so queer. I went to work as usual that day and when I came home, she’d gone. She was expecting our child, too. Oh God, why would she go like that? Why, inspector?”
The tears were in evidence again, and Ernie felt embarrassed for him. “I – I wish I could help, sir,” he said lamely. “Do – do you think anything could have happened to her?”
“Happened to her? What do you mean?”
“Well,” said Ernie slowly, “for instance, did you check that she’d taken her clothes – that sort of thing?”
“No, no I didn’t. I haven’t been able to think straight these past days …” He took the clock from the mantelpiece and proceeded to move the hands slowly to the correct time.
“I can understand that. But don’t you think we should check her wardrobe now?”
Danton looked at Ernie with surprise. “Check her wardrobe? That would be very impolite, wouldn’t it? A woman’s clothes are her own business, surely?”
Ernie smiled to himself. Here was a man who carried politeness beyond the point of reason. His wife was missing; he didn’t have a clue where she had gone, and she was expecting a baby. Looking in her wardrobe was an act that paled into insignificance beside all that. Or so Inspector Ernie Flagg believed.
“I think, sir,” said Ernie carefully, “that, on balance, we are well within our rights to check her clothes. She may have come to harm. We need to check that she left of her own free will. Absence of clothes will tell us that.”
Danton agreed reluctantly. He knew Charmian would be devastated to think that some strange man was going through her clothes, but he supposed there was no alternative. The thought that she had been kidnapped, or worse, didn’t bear thinking about.
“Well, sir?” said Ernie, once the wardrobe had disclosed its inner mysteries to the two men, “has she taken enough clothes? It looks pretty full to me. And all these shoes. It doesn’t look like anything’s been taken at all.”
Danton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I have to say, inspector, that it doesn’t look like it to me either. Her outdoor coat is still here. She loves this coat. I’m sure she wouldn’t go anywhere without it. Not this weather. What does it mean?”
Ernie Flagg was inclined to know what it meant, but wasn’t sure what to say to Danton. If all her clothes were still here, it stood to reason so was she. And if she was still here, she wasn’t alive. That was what he thought.
“It looks a little worrying, Mr Fentiman,” he said, formally now. He couldn’t believe this man had done his wife in, but what else was he to think? And where was the body?
Ernie moved to the bedroom window and looked down into the garden. He hoped he wouldn’t see what he dreaded to see. He blinked as he looked out at the damp scene. It was indiscernible at first, but then he couldn’t but believe it. There was a mound of earth that looked newly dug. It was about six feet long and about three feet wide. Like the dimensions of a grave.
Summer, 1956
Robbie had broken his promise to Bernard, but then he had no real intention of keeping it in the first place. How could he agree not to see the lovely Freda Lossways again? He was only flesh and blood, after all. A mere mortal. He only had to take one look at her lovely, fresh face and he knew he would see her again. But, to be fair, this only meant he paid frequent visits to the Feathers when she was behind the bar, and gazed at her over his whisky. When she wasn’t busy, he was up at the bar, chatting to her, but so far he hadn’t asked her out again. Maybe she wondered why.
It was one evening in late August when Robbie entered the pub to find a commotion going on. It was unusual for the Feathers; most of the clientele were fine, upstanding citizens, contenting themselves with a pint or two, friendly conversations about football and last night’s television, or just making do with the daily crossword. Rarely did a customer get rowdy, but tonight was very different.
A man in his early fifties, or thereabouts, seemed to be very drunk and shouting at Freda from his table by the window. There were at least ten empty beer glasses in front of him, so it was obvious that alcohol had played a major part in the state he was now in.
“You bitch! You’ve always been a bitch!” shouted Colin Mortimer. “Even in your bleedin’ cradle you were a bitch!”
Robbie strode straight over to the man who he could see was very red in the face and dribbling. Not a pretty sight.
“I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head when addressing a lady,” he boomed at him.
Colin Mortimer slumped back in his chair in surprise. Who was this man to tell him how to address his own daughter? He said as much when he had recovered from his surprise.
“Your daughter? Freda is your daughter?” Robbie was shocked. What an awful father to have. Then he rem
embered she had told him how she had married mainly to get away from home, and now he could understand why.
“Well supposedly,” said Colin snidely. “It’s not been proved.”
“You are being obnoxious, sir,” said Robbie grimly. “There is no excuse for using such language. You need to go home and sober up.”
“Oh I do, do I? And just how do you propose to make me do that? I have every right to drink in here, if I like. And I don’t want to go home, so there!”
“Dad, go home. I’ll have to call Bert in a minute. He’ll have you thrown out, if you’re not careful.”
“Him! I’m not scared of him, either!”
“Isn’t Ursula worried about you? You’ve been in here since six o’clock, dad. She’s probably cooked your tea and everything.”
“That’s not worth going home for, as well you know. She can’t cook for toffee.”
“Then why did you marry her?”
“Don’t ask me. She didn’t tell me.”
Robbie listened to the conversation with interest. Something was clicking in his brain, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. It was the name ‘Ursula’ that had pricked a memory, although he couldn’t for the life of him think why.
“You thought the sun shone out of her once, dad,” said Freda. “So I suggest you go home to her and eat your supper like a good boy.”
Colin Mortimer stood up and rocked slightly on the balls of his feet, causing him to sit down again with a bump. “You don’t talk to me like that, madam,” he yelled.
Just then, Bert Miller peered out from the back room. “Everything all right, Freda love?” he asked.
Freda turned and glared at him. “About time you put in an appearance,” she said stonily. “Can’t you hear the noise? I might be being murdered for all you care.”
“Sorry, love. Had the telly on too loud. It’s mother. She’s deaf as a post.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to serve some customers instead of watching ‘Take Your Pick’.”
Bert Miller grinned at her in what he fondly hoped was a charming, puppy dog way. “I only watch it to keep mum company. She likes to shout ‘open the box’ with me. And we all laugh when there’s only a pile of rubber bands in there and not a hundred pounds. People shouldn’t be greedy. They should take the money offered them and not expect more in the box.”
