by Pat Herbert
“’Ow you getting on with solving the case?” Mrs Harper was very interested. She wasn’t at all confident that this dear little old lady was up to Miss Marple’s standards. As far as she was aware, Anbolin Amery-Judge was a clairvoyant and psychic medium. What good were those skills in solving a twenty-year-old murder, she wondered. The police would laugh at her, and she didn’t want that.
“I’m nearly there, dear,” said Anbolin. “Just a light breakfast for me today. Only two eggs with my usual three sausages – and only three rashers of bacon. Go easy on the baked beans.”
Nancy Harper smiled as she lit the gas under the frying pan.
“Mrs Mortimer? Mrs Ursula Mortimer?”
“Who wants to know?”
Anbolin took an instant dislike to the woman who had answered the door to her knock. She had been prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt; but she was already condemned in her eyes. She knew all about the second Mrs Mortimer from talking to Freda in the pub over several nights and, from what she could gather, she was a rather unpleasant and selfish woman who had no regard for her stepdaughter, and rather less for her unsuspecting husband. Anbolin suspected that Ursula was someone who would stop at nothing to serve her own ends, including marrying someone she didn’t love and taking on that someone’s child. To be fair, Anbolin didn’t altogether blame her as a woman on her own wasn’t in the most advantageous position in those days of austerity after the second world war, when a woman’s place was firmly in the home.
“My name is Anbolin Amery-Judge, and I have been talking to your daughter. My card.”
Ursula gingerly took the dog-eared card offered and scrutinised it.
“What can I do for you then?” Ursula’s tone was even more unfriendly. A professional medium? What on earth could she want with her?
“Can I come in?” asked Anbolin bluntly, seeing at once that the woman was obviously unimpressed by the words on the card.
“I suppose so,” said Ursula reluctantly. She stood aside as Anbolin blundered her way into the passage, curiosity getting the upper hand.
“Go through into the kitchen,” Ursula instructed coldly.
“I suppose you want tea,” she stated, as the old lady seated herself at the kitchen table. The back door was open and the sun poured in. It was a glorious early September morning.
“And biscuits or cake, if you have any,” said Anbolin, never backward at coming forward, as no doubt Nancy Harper would say.
Ursula suddenly laughed. The woman was a caution and no mistake. “I might have a custard cream somewhere,” she said, not too hopefully.
Anbolin was secretly horrified at the use of the singular noun, but smiled gratefully.
When the tea and biscuits were served (thankfully, there was a whole plateful), Ursula again asked what Anbolin wanted.
“I think you know, dear,” said Anbolin, slightly warming towards her now that she had a few custard creams inside her.
“Do I?” She hadn’t the faintest idea, although she was beginning to get an inkling.
“The murder of your husband’s first wife.” Anbolin saw no point in beating about the bush. She crunched into her sixth custard cream.
Ursula Mortimer was immediately on her guard. “B-but that was twenty years ago!”
“Indeed, almost to the day,” said Anbolin, slurping her tea. “Now, I believe there was a miscarriage of justice, and I also believe that you can help rectify this.”
“H-how on earth do you think I can do that?”
Anbolin noticed the woman’s hands beginning to tremble. “I think there’s a whole lot you can tell me – things you never told the police at the time.”
Ursula stood up and started to pace up and down. “I think you’d better go,” she said grimly.
Undaunted, Anbolin didn’t budge, waiting for her to calm down.
“If you’ve nothing to hide, then I see no reason for you to react in this way,” she said calmly. “I just need to ascertain all the facts, that’s all.”
Ursula Trevor slumped down in the chair opposite and sighed. “I – I can only tell you she was alive when she left here that night.”
Anbolin smiled carefully, and withdrew a pad and pencil from her bag. For once, her knitting remained where it was. “The night of the murder, you mean?”
“That’s right.”
“Tell me, dear,” she said softly. “It’ll be a weight off your mind.”
Autumn, 1936
Dulcie Mortimer didn’t like her next door neighbour one little bit. Too nosy by half. But then, she was a widow with time on her hands, so she tried to take a charitable view. It wasn’t always easy though. But now she had need of her help, so she determined to be nice to her.
She rang Ursula Trevor’s doorbell and stamped her feet to fend off the cold while she waited for her to answer it. It was unusually cold that autumn, although she supposed it was nearly November, so what could you expect? And the rain! Would it ever stop?
Ursula Trevor opened the door and peered out into the night. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, not very enthusiastically.
“Hello, Mrs Trevor,” said Dulcie, trying to sound as friendly as possible. The look on the other’s face didn’t help. It was patentlt clear there was no love lost on either side. “Can I come in for a minute, love? I need to ask a favour.”
Ursula smirked to herself. Of course you do, dear. Why else would you be trying to ingratiate yourself on my doorstep? However, all she said was: “All right.” She stood aside to let her in and closed the door after her.
“Still raining, I see,” she said. “Go into the front room.”
“It’s never stopped all day,” said Dulcie. What would the English do for conversation if they didn’t have the weather, she wondered.
“Nice weather for ducks,” said Ursula. She stood beside her visitor and wished she’d come to the point. “Well, what is this favour?”
“Can you look after Freddie tonight?”
“Look after … Why, where’s Colin?”
“He’s – er, been delayed at work. Or so he says.”
“Perhaps you should change the habit of a lifetime, and not go to work yourself, then. I’m sure they can manage without you for one evening.”
Dulcie glared at her. She suspected that Ursula suspected that she didn’t work every night behind the bar. Even if Colin Mortimer suspected his wife didn’t, he had never said in so many words. But Ursula Trevor wasn’t so bothered about letting her know what she thought of her. Oh yes, the pretty barmaid met many men in the course of her work, and they bought her drinks and took her to the pictures and fancy restaurants. She was having a wonderful time, but in the meantime her little daughter was left in the care of her father. Dulcie saw all this in her next door neighbour’s eyes, and felt uncomfortable because she knew that Ursula’s disapprobation was very well justified. Freddie hardly knew who her mother was.
“I – I have to work,” said Dulcie, not very convincingly. “We need the money. Colin’s job at the factory doesn’t bring in enough.”
“He’s the bookkeeper there, isn’t he? Must get a reasonable screw I should think.”
“It’s okay, but not enough, if it’s any of your business. For your information, he hasn’t had a rise in two years, and he’s too timid to ask for one. I keep telling him to ask, but he won’t. Afraid they’ll sack him.”
“Bet they wouldn’t,” said Ursula, ready to jump to Colin Mortimer’s defence. She knew his worth, even if his slut of a wife didn’t. He deserved better than her.
Dulcie shrugged. “You never know,” she said. “He often makes mistakes, he tells me. That’s why he’s working late. There’s some discrepancies in the accounts and he’s got to sort them out. His boss, old Cartwright, is very patient as it is.”
“But do you really have to go to work tonight? I mean won’t your boss let you off, seeing as how Freddie’s got no one to look after her?”
“Well, that’s not strictly true, is it, Ursula? You wouldn’t mind, ju
st this once?” There was a wheedling note in her voice now, and Ursula was enjoying making her squirm.
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I was thinking of going to see that new Fred Astaire flick at the Ruby. I’ve heard it’s smashing.”
“Oh yes it is!” said Dulcie enthusiastically. She had seen it with Robespierre last week, after she had told him about the baby. She didn’t tell Ursula that, of course. “I mean, that’s what people have said in the pub, like,” she added quickly.
“Yes, it’s just what I need to get me out of myself, and that’s where I was thinking of going –
tonight,” said Ursula meaningfully, giving her a wry smile. Hoist with her own petard, she thought.
“But couldn’t you go tomorrow night instead?” Dulcie was sure that she wouldn’t want to let her beloved Colin down. She wouldn’t do it for her, but she would for her husband. She suspected that she was more than just a little sweet on him. And she must meet Robespierre tonight; he had promised to bring the money with him. Not that she needed it now. She had miscarried the morning after she had last seen him. But she wasn’t about to tell him that. Forty pounds would buy a lot of clothes and shoes, not to mention hats.
Ursula smiled again. “All right. Just this once. Shall you bring her here? I’d rather not spend the evening in your house. I like my wireless.”
“We’ve got a wireless, too,” Dulcie pointed out. “But I don’t mind bringing her round here. Shall I get her now?”
“Have you got to go right away, then?”
No, she didn’t have to go right away, but she had to get ready. She wanted to make sure she looked her very best. She was also anxious to try out some new make-up she had just bought which was supposed to be used by all the Hollywood stars. With Freddie under her feet she wouldn’t be able to concentrate properly.
“Yes, I have to help Bert sluice the pumps. I’ll go and get her.”
“Have you given her her tea?” Ursula called after her.
“Yes. She’s had an egg and some soldiers.”
Ursula sniffed. Poor little mite, she thought. Her mother doesn’t care two pins for that child. It’s just as well she’s got her dad.
Five minutes later Dulcie was back with little Freddie in tow. She stood beside her mother rubbing her sleepy eyes. Ursula, who had no children of her own and had never been particularly maternal, didn’t much like the child but couldn’t help feeling sorry for her having a mother like that.
“Now, Freddie, be a good girl and go and sleep on the good lady’s couch until your daddy gets home,” said Dulcie, leading her into the front parlour.
Freddie didn’t need asking twice. She climbed up on the comfy old sofa by the fire and instantly fell sound asleep.
Dulcie turned to go, but Ursula beckoned her into the kitchen. “Got time for a cuppa before you go?” she asked, turning on a smile that was as false as it looked. But she was determined to find out where her neighbour was going, leaving her poor child to the tender mercies of someone she didn’t really like, or even know that well.
Dulcie hesitated. “Er – well…” She had plenty of time, but did she really want to spend it chatting to this woman? “All right. It’s brass monkeys out there, so a cup of tea would be very welcome, thank you.”
When the tea was poured, Ursula came straight to the point. “Come on, Dulcie, tell me where you’re really going tonight.” She stared at her over her teacup, her face an unreadable mask.
“To work, of course. I told you. We need the money. That’s why I work all these hours.”
“I don’t believe you. As I said, your husband earns enough to keep you all comfortably.”
“How dare you! You have no right to talk to me like that. How much Colin earns is none of your business, I’ve told you. You should keep your nose out.” She pointed her finger at Ursula’s offending feature.
“Calm down, Dulcie. I didn’t just come up the river on a banana boat, you know. You’re seeing a man, aren’t you?”
Dulcie smirked. All right, if she guessed, then she’d tell her the whole lot. Give her something to pass on to her friends, if she had any. Anyway, she’d get a vicarious thrill out of it. Jealous cat. Bet she’d give her right arm for the chance of a date with a man like Robey.
“All right. You asked for it. I am seeing a man. A lovely, handsome man. Miles more good looking than Colin. And he loves me, so there. I’m going to run away with him one day when he leaves his wife.”
Ursula hadn’t really expected her to spill the beans in quite such a graphic way, but she wasn’t really that shocked at her news. “Is that the truth? If it is, do you think I won’t tell your husband?”
Dulcie shrugged her shoulders. “Do what you like. I don’t care anymore.”
Ursula lowered her voice. “Have you slept with him?”
“Slept with him? When would I get the chance to do that? If you mean have I been up an alley with him, then – yes, I have.” She was almost triumphant.
Ursula was really shocked this time. “You – you – whore!” she spat.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” she said blithely. “And I got pregnant as well.”
This was too much to take in. “You-re p-pregnant? You silly fool! What are you going to do about that? I won’t let Colin think it’s his, you can bet your life on that.”
“I said I got pregnant but I lost it.” Dulcie finished off her tea. “Nice, just hit the spot.” She wiped her mouth with her handkerchief. “Now, I really must be going. I have to meet him because he’s got the money for my abortion. Forty quid. Can’t wait to go shopping tomorrow.” She laughed.
Ursula stood up. For a moment she couldn’t speak, she had never been so angry. This slut of a woman was the most despicable person she had ever met. Not content with deceiving her husband, she was deceiving her lover as well. The money he was getting her for the supposed abortion was going to be spent at Harvey Nichols or some other such emporium. The woman didn’t deserve to live.
She grabbed the bread knife and walked over to Dulcie who was now standing up and getting ready to go. “Well, I hope you’ve had your thrill – what are doing with that knife? Careful, you could hurt someone…”
“I intend to, you – you bitch!”
Before she knew what was happening, the bread knife had sliced its way into Dulcie’s abdomen. The wounded woman looked at her aggressor, a puzzled, wild expression on her face like a cornered animal.
“W- why?”
Ursula Trevor dropped the knife and made to grab Dulcie. What had she done? She hadn’t meant to do it. Oh God!
Dulcie backed away from her and ran out of the kitchen, down the passage and out of the front door. Blood was seeping through her coat, but there was just one thought in her head: she must see Robespierre – she must see him.
Summer, 1956
“I didn’t mean to do it – I really didn’t. I just saw red. The knife was in my hands. Oh God! I’ll be hanged, won’t I?”
Anbolin gave her a reassuring pat on her hand. “I don’t think you killed her, love,” she said. “You said she was alive when she left you? After all, she couldn’t have walked out of your house and made it to the alley where she was found, could she? Unless you carried her there – and, by the look of you, I don’t think you would have had the strength.”
“N- no. I wouldn’t have been able to do that. But she was so determined to meet this man – I suppose it was the one that was actually hanged for her murder – that she was going to get there by hook or by crook. She was bleeding – she could have bled to death eventually – alone in that alley. It must be true what the man said – that he found her dead. He shouldn’t have hanged. I should have confessed. It’s been eating away at me all these years.”
“I think you’ve suffered enough, dear,” said Anbolin kindly. “And I think I’ll be able to put your mind at rest when I’ve talked to someone else.”
“Someone else?”
“Yes – someone else. Someone else killed he
r , mark my words.”
Summer, 1956
Anbolin Amery-Judge couldn’t promise Ursula Mortimer that she wouldn’t have to face prosecution for her part in the sad end to Dulcie Mortimer, but she would see what she could do to mitigate the situation for her. She would have to inform the police of this latest revelation, and how they would react to Ursula Mortimer’s part in this twenty-year-old murder was anyone’s guess. The fact that she eventually married the husband of the deceased wouldn’t look good, but Anbolin had a sneaking feeling the police would go easy on her. After all, she had had twenty years to suffer the consequences of her action that day, not least among them the effect it had had on her relationships with the dead woman’s husband and child.
Anbolin was far from convinced that the wound inflicted on Dulcie Mortimer by Ursula’s bread knife would have been the fatal blow. There were some pieces missing – one very large piece in particular. The real murderer was still at large, if he was still alive, of course. And she had no doubt that it was a ‘he’. The answer must be somewhere – but where? Not in Carl Fentiman’s garden shed, that was for sure. Robespierre knew he wasn’t the killer, but he didn’t know who was.
As she strolled along in the late summer sunshine, she suddenly knew where she must go. It was the sign on the bus that was heading in her direction – ‘Tooting High Road’. She managed to scramble on just as the bus left the stop, and she was told off by the conductor as she flopped down on the long side seat near to the open platform. She caught her breath and fanned herself with her purse.
“Now then, old timer,” said the man, not unkindly. “That’s a sure way of getting yourself killed. What’s all the hurry at your time of life?”
He gave her a wink as he took her threepence and clipped her ticket.
“Less of your cheek, young man,” said Anbolin huffily, snatching it from him. “I’ll have you know I have some very important business to attend to. I know what I’m doing.”
The conductor smiled. She was a character and no mistake. She reminded him of his old gran, all fluster and bark, but soft as butter underneath. Cantankerous was probably the right word for both old ladies, he thought.
