by Pat Herbert
“I just don’t want you to end up splattered all over the road, love,” he said.
“I’ll try and avoid that,” she snorted. “I’ve managed to live eighty-odd years without doing it yet.”
The conductor moved on down the bus and Anbolin stared out of the window. Yes, she thought, that’s where I’ll find the answer.
The Plaza cinema was showing a Technicolored extravaganza with Tony Curtis and Burt Lancaster dressed in tights as circus acrobats. Anbolin stopped to admire the cardboard cut-outs of the actors on display outside, before turning down the alley beside the cinema. This was where the queues generally formed, but it was only eleven o’clock and the programme didn’t start for another hour. This would give her plenty of time to do what she had to do.
She stood for several minutes, soaking up the atmosphere. The sun was weaker here as it was unable to penetrate the gloom of the narrow, smelly alley, and the old woman shivered. However, this wasn’t due to the sudden chill caused by the inefficient sun; there was a shadowy figure standing several feet away from her and this was where the cold air was coming from. Anbolin rubbed her eyes several times and blinked. The figure became gradually clearer. It was a man in his middle years, handsome in a coldly cynical way with a prominently crooked nose.
“Hello?” she said tentatively. “Who are you?”
The man slowly grinned. “I’m your worst nightmare, old woman,” he said.
Anbolin shivered again. “W-what exactly do you mean by that?” She stood her ground, even though she felt like running away as fast as her little fat legs would carry her.
“Didn’t you know? You can see me, can’t you? I’m a murderer of women. At least, I was – once.”
Anbolin moved back a step or two, but the man moved the same distance towards her. “Feeling scared, old woman?”
“N-no – b-because you’re d-dead, aren’t you?”
The man looked annoyed now. “So? At least I can stand up again.”
“Stand up again? What do you mean?”
“This was the scene of my last murder,” he said, looking around. “It was shortly after I was diagnosed…”
“Diagnosed?”
“Yes – diagnosed with the bloody disease that finally killed me.”
“What was that?”
“I didn’t know what it was at first. I went to the doctor because I kept dropping things and my fingers kept tingling. I felt so sick and tired all the time.”
“You probably got a kind of justice then,” said Anbolin bravely.
“Yes, you would probably say so. I ended up in a wheelchair. Dead from the neck up. Where’s the justice in that, old woman? It’s the likes of you who should be in wheelchairs.”
Anbolin decided to ignore this last remark. “You deserved it. So, how many women did you kill?”
Reggie Hinchley counted them out on his fingers. “Six – no, seven. Dulcie Mortimer was my seventh and last. It was here in this very spot that I killed her.”
“I know. She was already bleeding from a knife wound,” stated Anbolin.
“How on earth did you know that?”
“I have my methods. So you just finished her off?”
“I certainly did. The knife wound wasn’t deep. I stabbed her several times to make sure.”
“You were very evil. Why kill those women? What had they ever done to you?”
“They were women. That was enough. And they didn’t care what they did. That Dulcie Mortimer paraded herself like some Hollywood film star in a dress you could practically see through.”
“That was no reason to kill her, was it?”
Reggie Hinchley shrugged as if to say it was reason enough for him. “My work was far from done when I was struck down. I spent my last years unable to walk.”
“That was the good Lord intervening. The police failed to catch you so He did their job for them. When did you die?”
“Ten years ago.”
“You let someone else hang for your crime.”
“That was the least of my crimes, old woman. I’m only sorry it was a man, and not a woman.”
“You really hate our sex, don’t you?”
Reggie smirked at her. “Well, I hardly think you’re a fine example. But I suppose you don’t go around tempting men like the harlots I wanted to stop. But then you’re hardly Myrna Loy, are you? Maybe you would have been years ago, but I can’t see it myself”
Anbolin clenched her fat little fists in anger. She managed to keep her rising temper under control, however, saying more mildly than she felt: “I think you should make amends now.”
“You do, do you? Yes, well, I suppose so you’re right … After all, it might help me get out of this limbo I’ve been in all these years. Finally getting through to someone must be a sign.”
“Yes, it’s about time you faced your crimes. Except I can’t take a ghost to the police.”
“No. You can’t. And I wouldn’t go even if I could. But you can take a notebook, detailing all my murders.”
“A notebook? There’s a notebook? If only I could my hands on it.”
“You can. It’s under the floorboards in my bedroom.”
Anbolin snorted in frustration. “And just how do you suppose I’ll be get access to it?”
“I lived at number thirty Half Moon Street, Tooting.”
“But not for at least ten years.”
“The police should be able to gain access.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
Reggie Hinchley was beginning to dematerialise. As he disappeared, his voice told her that she would have to trust him.
Anbolin sighed. Trust a murderer? That took some trusting. But somehow, this one she did.
Summer, 1956
“We’re going to the police, are we?” Bernard’s heart sank. He had had dealings with the police in the past and sometimes felt they merely tolerated him because of his collar. An innocent man had been saved from hanging in the case of the murder of a young girl on Wandsworth common; but the true suspect couldn’t be held accountable as he was already dead, and had been for some considerable time, well before the actual murder itself. Ghosts again. Also, he feared that if Inspector Neverholme saw him again, he’d be drummed out of the police station for good.
“Are you sure, Anbolin? Do you think we should bother the police with this after all this time?”
“Do you think I’m doing this for the good of my health? You called me in, so here I am. I don’t expect gratitude; I certainly don’t expect paying; but I do expect to be able to finish the job I started.” She bristled at him, folding and unfolding her arms, and blowing through her nose like an angry donkey.
Bernard capitulated at once. Anything for a quiet life. Mrs Aitch giving him regular ear bashings was one thing; but to have them in stereo was quite another.
“Now, we need to tell Carl Fentiman, he’d better come to. I propose we all go along tomorrow. Can we call Fentiman? Is he on the phone?”
“I’ve no idea. I could look him up in the telephone directory, I suppose.”
“Never mind. We’ll go round there now. He’s bound to be home at this time of night.”
“But it’s nearly ten o’clock! Much too late to pay social calls without an invitation, surely.”
“Tish, tosh! Men like Carl Fentiman don’t go to bed before the witching hour.”
Bernard secretly wondered how Anbolin could be so sure about the nocturnal habits of men much younger than herself. Not from personal experience, he’d be bound. He wouldn’t have liked to assume that men the likes of the unlikeable Carl Fentiman went to bed at all: they probably prowled the streets looking for virgins, fangs dripping with blood.
But Anbolin was already up and at the door. “Come on, no time to lose. Look, it’s still practically daylight out there.”
It wasn’t, being near the end of August, but Bernard was too tired to argue. He needed his bed, even if she didn’t. He grabbed his hat from the hallstand and followed her
out of the front door. Mrs Harper stuck her head out of the front window as they strode up the path.
“Where are you goin’ at this time of night?” she called after them.
Bernard turned and lifted his hands in mock despair. “Don’t ask, Mrs Aitch. I’m only the monkey, not the organ grinder.”
Mrs Harper gave one of her infamous sniffs, and slammed the window shut. She supposed it was none of her business, although since when was anything that Bernard Paltoquet did not her business? Well, most of the time, of course, she supposed, but she never took any notice of that.
She sat down in her comfy chair again with one of Bernard’s socks. How he wore holes so big after wearing them just once, she could never understand. She sighed and fished in her sewing basket for some grey darning wool.
“You’ve discovered my dad wasn’t the murderer?” Carl Fentiman smiled from ear to ear which made him look, in Bernard’s opinion, like Mr Punch when he was beating Judy around the head with a stick. The noise of a baby’s scream could be heard from the floor above, and Bernard knew which one of the twins it was likely to be: the one who had ruined his trousers the day of the christening.
Anbolin pushed past Carl and entered the kitchen. Bernard followed her, hat in hand.
“Yes, do come in,” said Carl unnecessarily.
Seated at the kitchen table, Anbolin looked longingly at the remains of a fruit cake on the stand that was tantalisingly placed there.
Bernard grinned to himself. She never seemed to get full. Never mind hollow legs, she seemed to have a hollow body. Still, he had to admit, the cake did look appetising.
“Well, it was the husband, wasn’t it?” Carl had been informed by Max Bucket that it was very likely Colin Mortimer who had murdered his wife. But he, like Anbolin, had no way of proving it.
“That is one possibility,” she said, still eyeing the cake. “Not the only one, mind. I intend to take my findings to the police tomorrow. Both you and the vicar here must come with me.”
Carl coughed. As he did so, his pale, fretful wife entered the kitchen. “Hello?” she said at Bernard and Anbolin. “Oh, it’s you, vicar,” she then said, on seeing Bernard. Perhaps the old biddy was his mother, she thought.
“Hello, Mrs Fentiman,” he said, standing up. “Allow me to introduce Miss Amery-Judge.”
Anbolin smiled at her. A very put-upon young woman was her educated guess.
Mrs Aletha Fentiman could have been pretty once, although it was difficult to tell now. She looked completely worn out, her eyes just dark circles, her cheeks hollowed out and gaunt. Her nondescript hair hung straight down each side of her face, and looked as if it hadn’t been washed for weeks.
“To what do we owe the pleasure, vicar?” she asked wearily.
“We – we’re sorry to disturb you,” said Bernard, “but we think we have some good news for your husband.”
“Good news? For Carl? What about some good news for me?”
She turned on her heel and stormed out of the room. Sobbing could be heard as she retraced her steps to the nursery.
“Please forgive my wife,” said Carl with a slight leer, “She gets emotional at this time of night. The twins are a handful lately. Won’t go to sleep at all. Keep whining for food or something. Well, Dickie does, anyway. Mickey’s all right most of the time.”
Dickie and Mickey? Bernard couldn’t believe his ears. He didn’t remember christening them with those names, but then he wasn’t good at names. However, he felt sure he’d remember a couple like that. Then he realised: of course. He didn’t christen them with those names at all; Richard and Michael, of course. Another black mark against Carl Fentiman. Well two, if you counted the offhand way he seemed to treat his poor, downtrodden wife.
Anbolin didn’t seem perturbed by Aletha’s behaviour; she was very upset about the cake, though. It had been sitting there all this time, but Carl hadn’t even offered it to her. That was a black mark against him, in Anbolin’s book, never mind cruelty to wives and giving children silly names.
Bernard frowned at Anbolin whom he could see was more or less transfixed by the cake. He shook his head at her and she shrugged back at him. Pulling her eyes away from the object of her affection, she focused back on Carl.
“So, young man, you’re free to come to the police with us tomorrow, I take it?”
“I’ll make sure I am,” he said with determination. She seemed to mean business, which was more than Max did. He had been dithering about for days, and Carl was now convinced that he wasn’t going to come up with the goods after all. He had determined to pay him off if he didn’t pull his finger out soon. At least the old biddy wasn’t costing him anything.
“Good!” Anbolin rose. “I think it will be an interesting experience. I think I can prove your father didn’t kill Dulcie Mortimer.”
“That’s marvellous! Do you know who did kill her then?”
“I do. But it will involve the police getting access to a house in Tooting and digging up some floorboards.”
Carl was nonplussed by this. How on earth did she arrive at that conclusion, he wondered. There was more to this old trout than met the eye. She knew her onions, all right.
“I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get all my ducks in a row,” she continued, “but the difficulty arose because we’re dealing with ghosts. The police won’t have any truck with ghosts, more’s the pity.”
“You didn’t tell me who did it,” Carl persevered.
“You will know all in good time.”
Bernard was just as curious as Carl, but could see there was no point in badgering Anbolin any further. He would have to be content to find out tomorrow.
“If he didn’t kill this woman and you can prove it, then my father can have a decent Christian burial at last,” said Carl happily. And then maybe he’d stop haunting his garden shed.
“Hmm,” said Anbolin thoughtfully. “Maybe we should just leave him where he is for the time being – just until we’re sure…”
“But you’ve just said he didn’t kill that woman…”
“Yes, Anbolin, dear,” added Bernard. “You did.”
“I know, I know,” she said enigmatically. “But, I repeat, let’s leave him where he is for the moment.”
Bernard looked at Carl and Carl looked at Bernard, eyebrows raised. Bernard left his eyebrows in the normal position and merely shrugged.
Autumn, 1936
Dulcie Mortimer tottered down the street, clutching her stomach. There was a spreading wet feeling under her hand and she looked down and saw blood seeping through her new dress. What on earth had possessed the woman, she wondered, as she made her way towards the high street and the Plaza cinema. Please let him be there, she thought. He’ll take me to hospital and all will be well.
But as she thought this she realised that the doctors and nurses would probably be able to save her life but, in the process, give the game away about her baby, or rather the non-existence of it. Okay, she thought. Once Robespierre had delivered her to the hospital she would insist he leave her there, saying that she wouldn’t want him to compromise himself. After all, the staff at the Accident and Emergency department would presume he was her boyfriend at the very least; they might also presume he wielded the knife in the first place. Yes, she thought, that should convince him to leave her before the cat was out of the bag. And as soon as she was patched up she would arrange to meet him and get the money off him.
Then she had another thought: what if he assumed that the wound would have caused her to miscarry? It would, in normal circumstances, have that effect she had to admit. It would be highly unlikely that a few-weeks-old foetus could withstand a blow like the one she had received from Ursula Trevor. God help her.
Dulcie reached the alley beside the Plaza cinema and realised she was too early for her tryst. She squinted at her watch: still fifteen minutes to the appointed time. The pain was biting now and she realised she wouldn’t be able to ignore it much longer. Fortunately, her precious new c
oat was still hiding the stain, but how long would it be before it seeped through and people began to notice? She must see Robey before that. Maybe he’d give her the money before she told him about the knife wound. Once the money was in her purse, she would be able to give in to her suffering. But, for now, she must be strong. Forty pounds was more money than she had ever had in her life.
She hoped he might be early as the pain was excruciating now and the blood was seeping down her leg. Then she saw him: he was standing in the shadow. Thank goodness, she thought. But why didn’t he greet her straightaway? Then he stepped out of the shadow to reveal a complete stranger with a knife in his hand.
Summer, 1956
Chief Inspector Neverholme’s heart sank when he saw Bernard enter his office, followed closely by a baggy old woman and a sly-looking man in a raffish suit and cocky hat. He remembered the Reverend Bernard Paltoquet from a couple of years back: he had helped him ‘solve’ the murder of a teenage girl for which he had been rather less than grateful. In fact, although he was more or less convinced of the murderer’s identity, he couldn’t arrest, convict and hang the blighter because he was already dead. Looking back, he wondered how he had been convinced that this was what really had happened. Sergeant Barry Rathbone, who had worked on the case with him, had also been convinced. It helped to keep an open mind in this business, Neverholme knew, but maybe not as open as all that. He had to stamp ‘unsolved’ on the file in the end because he didn’t want to look a complete fool either to his superiors, his peers or his underlings. He would never live it down.
Now here was that very same vicar, apparently bringing with him the woman who was going to prove that a miscarriage of justice had taken place twenty years ago. His predecessor, Ernie Flagg, would be spinning in his very recently dug grave if he knew what was going on. He remembered his encounter with the private detective, Max Bucket, and wondered if this was anything to do with the Dulcie Mortimer case. A bit coincidental, but it seemed very likely all the same.
