by Pat Herbert
“Suppose they should,” said Freda. “But you need to be behind the bar sometimes, you know.”
“Okay, okay. But there’s a good play coming on and mum wants her cocoa.”
Luckily it wasn’t very busy in the pub that Tuesday evening, otherwise Freda would have told Bert where he could stick his cocoa. She turned to face her father, who was now tottering behind the bar, a few inches away from her. He looked threatening and Robbie was ready to grab his collar and yank him out of the pub if it became necessary.
“Look here, Mr – er – what’s your name?”
“None of your bleedin’ business,” said Colin Mortimer politely.
“It’s Mortimer – Colin Mortimer,” supplied Freda helpfully.
Robbie’s brain clicked again. ‘Colin Mortimer’. Why did he recognise that name? No, he couldn’t think. Must be going mad, he thought.
“Look here, Mr Mortimer,” he said, “You are making a spectacle of yourself. You’re very drunk. Will you please leave?”
Bert Miller echoed the sentiment. “Yes, Colin,” he said, “you’re not welcome in here when you get this drunk. Now, I don’t want to bar you, but I will if I have to.”
Colin Mortimer tried to focus on Bert. “You telling me to get out?”
Bert pulled himself up to his full five feet seven and a half inches, which didn’t mean much against Colin’s six feet two inches. Still, he had the advantage of being sober. He gauged that between himself and the burly doctor, they should be able to put the man out in the street without much difficulty, if it became necessary.
Suddenly, Colin Mortimer sagged and nearly fell to the floor. It was only Robbie’s hand grabbing him by the shoulder that stopped him.
“Are you going quietly, man?”
“All right, all right. Keep your hair on. I’m going. Just you tell that slut of a daughter of mine to keep out of my sight.”
“Maybe it would be easier if you didn’t come in here, then,” said Robbie, “as she works here and isn’t about to resign her job for your sake, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“I’ll drink where I like.”
Colin Mortimer’s bravado had started to return, but before he got back into full throttle, Robbie marched him to the door and pushed him roughly into the street.
“What was all that about with your father, Freda?”
It was gone closing time and Freda was still washing the glasses, while Robbie sat and watched her. Bert Miller was back in his parlour watching the Epilogue with his mother. Soon they could hear the National Anthem blaring out.
Freda threw a tea towel at him. “Here, you can help me dry up,” she grinned.
Robbie looked as if he didn’t know one end of it from the other. He took it gingerly and picked up a wet glass. He wouldn’t do this for anyone else, he thought, a trifle crossly.
“Are you going to tell me what was going on?”
“Oh, you really don’t want to know, Robbie. I told you that me and dad didn’t get on. Especially after he married Ursula. She never liked me, really. She turned him against me as well.”
“I don’t think I like your stepmother very much,” said Robbie sympathetically. “But your father should never have let her influence him in the first place.”
Freda sighed. “Oh, I don’t suppose she did, really. He just didn’t like me anyway. I think after my mother was, well, you know, killed like that, his whole world shattered. He had always worshipped her, but then when she was murdered he realised she’d been cheating on him all the time. He’d always made excuses for her before when she said she was working in the pub. But he supposed he’d known all the time she couldn’t be working every night. And of course she wasn’t. Instead she was meeting men – at least, one man in particular – the one who was supposed to have killed her.”
“Why do you say ‘supposed’?” Robbie wiped another glass and nearly dropped it in the process.
“Careful, Robbie,” said Freda. “I have to pay for any breakages out of my wages – such as they are.”
“Sorry.” Robbie put the glass down as carefully as he could. He was nervous now. Freda smiled kindly at him.
“That’s all right,” she said. “I’ll finish them off.”
“You said ‘supposed to have killed her’,” insisted Robbie. “Don’t you think they got the right man, then?” His brain was clicking in overtime mode now.
She shrugged. “I suppose they did. The jury was convinced, anyhow. But I don’t know. I think my dad had something to do with it.”
“But I thought you said his world fell apart when she died,” said Robbie, puzzled. “Why on earth would he kill her? What makes you think so?”
“Nothing specific. But he was a changed man after she died and always avoided talking about her. If I so much as mentioned her name, he’d just clam up. He always seemed to look away from me as well, and if Ursula was there he would look at her instead, almost frightened.”
“As if she knew something you didn’t?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“What’s your father’s name again?”
“Mortimer. Colin Mortimer.”
Robbie wanted to catch hold of something that was just disappearing around the corner of his brain. But he was too late. It had gone.
Autumn, 1936
“You ready, Beryl?”
“Look, this is the last time I’m coming with you to meet this man,” said Beryl Chambers crossly as she raised her umbrella and joined Dulcie in the street. “My mum thinks you take advantage of my good nature.”
“She should mind her own business, your mum,” said Dulcie unkindly. “You haven’t got a date tonight, have you?”
“Do I ever?” Beryl stamped along beside her companion, rain dripping from her umbrella onto her shoulders and best suede shoes. “Now look what you’ve done! Ruined my best shoes.”
“I’ll buy you another pair when this is all over, Beryl,” said Dulcie, looking at the rain soaking through her friend’s lovely red shoes. “Why didn’t you wear your wellingtons?”
“Oh, never mind. It’s my fault, I suppose. Is he going to give you the money tonight?”
“He’d better,” said Dulcie, feeling less confident now that they were yards away from the alley by the Plaza cinema where she was due to meet Robespierre as usual. “He promised. I don’t know what I’ll do otherwise.”
“Have it and palm it off as Colin’s,” said Beryl.
“I’ve already told you, Beryl,” whined Dulcie. “Me and Colin – well, we haven’t – you know…”
“What? Not at all? I thought you were joking.”
“Not for at least six months. Why would I joke about a thing like that? I think he’s gone off me. And anyway, I don’t even like him touching me since I met Robey.”
“Well, that’ll put the cat among the pigeons and no mistake. You’d better pray he’s got the money, that’s all.”
As she said this, the two women stood opposite the Plaze picture house. They could see a man standing beside the front poster announcing ‘all next week’. He was in silhouette, but Dulcie was sure it was him; the way he was standing with his hands in his pockets. That was how he always stood while he waited for her to keep their secret trysts.
“Okay, you can go, Beryl,” she said to her long-suffering friend.
Beryl sniffed. “Fine evening I’ll have now,” she said. “I suppose I’ll have to listen to the wireless with mum all evening.”
Dulcie laughed as she tripped across the road, causing a puddle to splash over Beryl’s shoes again.
“Oh, bother!” she said, stamping her foot and getting her other shoe wet. She remained where she was, however, watching her flighty friend cross the road and join the figure standing in the alleyway.
“Better make sure she’s all right, I suppose,” she said to herself. “Silly cow!”
Summer, 1956
“She’s back!”
Bernard was entering the vicarage hall after his midweek evenin
g service, full of quiet thoughts and serenity. It had been a good service; well attended and he had met two new parishioners who had been very impressed by him. That didn’t happen very often, in these days of falling attendance due mainly, Bernard suspected, to the advent of television. The young couple assured him they would be coming regularly to his services and, by the way, could he marry them? Oh well, there had to be an ulterior motive he supposed, but they seemed genuine enough.
As he removed the key from the lock of the front door, Mrs Harper bore down upon him with the news that Anbolin Amery-Judge was back.
“Lock up your larders, eh, Mrs Aitch?” laughed Bernard.
“Oh you think it’s funny, do you?” Mrs Harper didn’t seem to share the joke. She had trouble making ends meet on the meagre housekeeping allowance she got from him as it was, without the likes of Anbolin eating her out of house and home.
“Well, she’s a nice old body, really, Mrs Aitch,” said Bernard placatingly. “I quite missed having her around. I hope her pussycat was all right when she got home.”
“I’m sure I don’t know about any pussycat, vicar,” sniffed Mrs Harper. “She’s already eaten her way through two bowls of soup and three-quarters of my shepherd’s pie. I hope you’re not hungry, that’s all.”
“Ravenous, Mrs Aitch. Tell you what,” he said, fishing in his coat pocket for his wallet. “Here’s ten shillings. Go and get fish and chips for all three of us – just as a special treat.”
“Fish and chips! Fish and chips!” she roared at him. “My cooking’s no good for you, is it?”
“You misunderstand me, Mrs Aitch,” said Bernard, taken aback. “I thought it would save you more cooking tonight. I know fish and chips won’t be as delicious as your food, but, well, I rather fancy some…” He saw the glint in her eye and wished he hadn’t told her that.
“It’s all right,” she said with an air of nonchalance. “I’ll go and sign on at the Labour Exchange tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, please, Mrs Aitch. I didn’t mean to offend you. I thought it would be a little treat – er, well not a treat exactly because your food would be the best treat, just that –“
While Bernard was getting himself more and more tongue-tied, Anbolin appeared from the kitchen, grinning all over her crinkly face.
“Now, now, children,” she said. “Let’s calm down, shall we? I think the young man’s idea of fish and chips a superb one. I’d like double rock salmon and mushy peas, please. Oh, and a couple of wallies.”
Mrs Harper turned and glared at the woman who was fast becoming her bête noir, if she had known what that meant. What was she doing back here so soon, anyway? As for old Solly’s fish and chips – well, they were all grease and totally inedible. But here was this old trout demanding that she, Mrs Nancy Harper, don her hat and coat and go and patronise the man’s establishment and, what’s more, spend the best part of a ten shilling note on what he laughingly called ‘food’.
Bernard was beside himself. Did she really mean to leave him? What would he do without her apple dumplings, plum duffs, steak and kidney pies and drop scones? It didn’t bear thinking about.
“All right, Mrs Aitch,” he sighed. “No fish and chips – not unless you cook them yourself. Is that all right?”
Mrs Harper folded her arms and looked at both delinquents. “I’m sure I don’t know. I’ve been cut to the quick and no mistake.”
“We didn’t mean to offend you, Mrs Aitch,” he said, “Did we, Anbolin?” He looked pleadingly at the old lady who seemed to be enjoying herself immensely.
“Nothing could be further from our minds, Nancy,” she said, turning on the charm. “But I like fish and chips – especially served up in the News Chronicle – and the greasier the better.”
Mrs Harper looked as if she was about to have a stroke. Bernard took her by the shoulders and led her into the front room and sat her down in the comfiest chair. He wondered if he should send for Robbie.
“Chips in the News Chronicle – it’s enough to give me an ’art attack. Now just leave me to put the fat on for the chips. There’s some nice pieces of fresh cod in the pantry.”
It was obvious that Nancy Harper was going to be a martyr. Bernard looked at his housekeeper with concern. “You don’t have to do this, Mrs Aitch. Please…”
“Ten shillingses aren’t so frequent that we can chuck them at the likes of Solomon Greenberg,” said Mrs Harper, standing up. “Now let me get on or you won’t get your suppers this side of Christmas.”
Anbolin winked slyly at Bernard and they filed quietly out of the room. Bernard looked over his shoulder as he went out. “Are you sure you’re all right, Mrs Aitch?”
“As right as I’ll ever be, what with my arthritis and my leg.”
Bernard decided not to question her ‘leg’, although he vaguely wondered which one and what was wrong with it. He hadn’t noticed her limping, but he would be the first to admit that he wasn’t the most observant of men.
“So, Anbolin, have you come to stay again?”
“For a couple of days, or so,” she replied, seating herself in the vicar’s fireside chair.
“It’s nice to see you again,” said Bernard. “How have you been getting on with the mystery?”
“Oh, I’ve solved the whole thing – more or less. Just one or two little details I need to sort out.”
“I see. I’ve got something to tell you too,” he said. “I’ve met someone who knew Inspector Flagg.”
Anbolin’s little black eyes twinkled. “You have? Who?”
This was where Bernard always let himself down. Faces he had no problem with. But marrying the name to the face, that was another matter.
“Er, who?”
“Yes. Who? Who did you meet?”
“He’s dead, you know. I buried him a couple of weeks ago.”
“Well, it’s to be hoped he was then.”
“Was then?”
“Dead.”
Bernard was completely confused. He decided to say nothing.
Anbolin got her knitting out of her bag, and started to click the needles. “What was this person’s name whom you met, dear?” She eyed him quizzically.
“I – I – er, let me think. She was a pleasant lady. Beryl, I think she was called. Er, her last name escapes me – Morris – no, not Morris, but it definitely began with M – I think.”
“Beryl? Beryl, you said?” Anbolin was all ears now.
“Yes – or was it Ruby? Some sort of jewel, anyway.”
“Let’s stick with Beryl, shall we? Her last name wasn’t Chambers, by any chance?”
Bernard screwed up his face in concentration. “No, no, I’m sure it wasn’t that.”
“I think it was, young man. Beryl Chambers was the only witness at the murder trial of Robespierre Fentiman. Her testimony got him hanged.”
“Goodness!” Bernard was thrilled.
“Now, do you know – and I don’t hold out much hope of this – where she lives?”
“Now that I do know. She told me. Bockhampton Road. Just round the corner from here.”
Anbolin was somewhat surprised. “For a man who doesn’t remember names very well, you remembered that mouthful, all right.”
Bernard smiled. “Yes, well, there’s a reason for that. A young couple were murdered in a house in that road – only last year. They left a little boy an orphan. I found their bodies.”
Anbolin dropped a couple of stitches in horror. “My dear man, that must have been a terrible shock for you.”
Bernard didn’t reply. Anbolin put a comforting hand on his knee. She could see how upset he was.
Silence engulfed them until Nancy Harper shattered it by calling out that their fish and chips were ready and she hoped it choked them.
Winter, 1937
Inspector Ernie Flagg was nervous; probably more nervous than he had ever been in his life. He had hurt someone who was becoming very dear to him and he didn’t know how to rectify the situation. He didn’t even know if
it was rectifiable at all, but he knew he had to try. So it was a very cold early February evening that found him standing on Beryl Chambers’ doorstep, finger poised over the bell.
He dithered, trying to formulate his first words. He hoped Beryl would open the door, but what if her mother did instead? She would probably have instructions not to admit him, and then what would he do? Still, there was no point in hesitating, he was here to try and put things right, so he pressed the bell a little harder and longer than he meant to.
As he feared, it was Mrs Chambers who opened the door to him. “Well?” she said coldly, “What d’you want?” Ernie’s heart sank. This was going to be just as difficult as he had imagined.
He cleared his throat and tried his most ingratiating smile. “Hello, Mrs Chambers,” he said, “H-how are you?”
“Have you called at half past seven in the evening just to ask me how I am?” she sneered. She wasn’t going to make this easy for him, he could see.
“Er, n-no, I mean, y-yes – I hope you are well,” he said lamely.
“As well as can be expected, thank you.”
A silence ensued.
“Good,” he said finally. “Is – is Beryl in?”
“I don’t think that is any of your business after what you put her through. She doesn’t want to have anything more to do with you. It’s enough she’s got to appear as a witness at a murder trial, without you threatening and bullying her like you did.”
“There – there was a reason for that, Mrs Chambers. I need to explain myself to her. You see, I needed to get one of my suspects cleared and that was the only way to do it. If I had told Beryl exactly what I was going to do, it might not have worked because she might not have been able to appear so upset. I – I’m so sorry…”
“And why was it necessary for her to be upset at all, may I ask?”
