The Dark Side of the Mirror

by Pat Herbert

  “Wow!” said Robbie, almost lost for words. “What a turn up. The police will have egg on their faces, though, won’t they if they find this man’s notebook detailing all his murders. They should have connected the Dulcie Mortimer murder with him at the time, surely.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s understandable that they focused on Fentiman as he was witnessed running away from the scene of the crime.”

  “I suppose so,” said Robbie, draining his whisky glass. “So that’s it, then? No more ghosts in the garden shed. And Anbolin’s work is done and can go home. And leave what remains of the food in your pantry. I’m sure Mrs Aitch will be relieved.”

  “Oh, she’s not going home yet,” said Bernard, grinning. “Apart from her Gargantuan appetite, I’m very fond of her. Besides, she still has to clear the other twin’s name. He was hanged for murdering his wife, but she doesn’t think he did it. And I had a visit from the man who’s now living in the house where that murder took place. Says he’s being haunted by the ghost of a woman and Anbolin’s going to see what she can learn from her.”

  “My goodness, it’s all happening, isn’t it?” Robbie felt disappointed that he had missed so much, mooning after Freda Lossways, whom he had actually told that afternoon after the cinema visit that they should no longer see each other. It had broken his heart to see the look on her face, but he knew it was for the best, even if Robbie hadn’t persuaded him that it was so.

  “Yes. The man who visited me didn’t know about the murder that took place in his house, and I didn’t connect it with the Fentiman case either. It was Anbolin who said it, because she asked the man where he lived and knew that was the house where the tragedy took place.”

  “Well I hope she’s as successful with this as she was with the Dulcie Moritmer case,” said Robbie. “From what I can gather, Danton Fentiman was a decent man caught up in the machinations of his rotten twin brother, and not the sort to murder his wife on a whim.”

  “It was hardly a whim, of course,” Bernard pointed out. “Remember he was taunted by his brother that the baby she was carrying wasn’t his, or implied it, anyway. That could well have unhinged him, because from what I understand he was deeply in love with her.”

  “That’s right. The baby was the icing on the cake. They had been trying to have a child for several years, and it seemed that he wasn’t capable of fathering a child, although the fault could have been with the wife, of course. Though, in the end, the wife was fertile, but Danton probably wasn’t and the baby was someone else’s. That must have broken him completely.”

  “So you think he probably murdered her, then?”

  “I think it very likely, yes.”

  “Hmm,” said Bernard, pouring his friend another whisky. “Oh, by the way, I’m paying a visit to this Beryl Mossop tomorrow, along with Anbolin. She’s hoping to get some more insight into Danton Fentiman’s character. Mrs Mossop knew them both, so she’d be able to tell her a bit more about both men, and whether she thought that Danton was capable of murder. I think you should come to, Robbie. We’re going to tea at four o’clock.”

  Robbie was only too eager to be included in the party. “You can count on me, Bernie,” he said.

  “And I think you’re going to like Mrs Mossop,” said Bernard slyly. “She’s just your cup of tea. You should forget all about that flighty barmaid, no matter how pretty she is.”

  “I’ve already done so, old boy.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes. I said it wasn’t fair on either of us to go on seeing each other when nothing could come of it. She was upset …” That was putting it mildly, he thought. “But I think she understood in the end.”

  “You did the right thing, Robbie.”

  “I suppose so.” If Bernard didn’t know his friend better, he could have sworn there was a tear in his eye. “Come on, old thing,” he said encouragingly. “What about a game of chess?”

  Robbie visibly brightened. He loved the game, and there was the meeting with Beryl Mossop to look forward to tomorrow. Life wasn’t so bad, after all.

  Autumn, 1936

  Inspector Ernie Flagg still didn’t believe it. A man as gentle, polite and unassuming as Danton Fentiman surely wasn’t capable of killing anyone, let alone his own wife and unborn child. Yet here he was, sitting in front of him, saying just that.

  “Look, Inspector, there’s no point in arguing about it, I’m guilty of the crime and there’s an end to it.” The man looked as miserable as sin.

  The unearthing of the body of Charmian Fentiman in Danton’s back garden was the clincher, it would seem. There was no doubt in anyone else’s mind and, besides, what else could he do if the man said he did it, then – well, he did it. Didn’t he?

  “But why, Fentiman?” said Ernie for the umpteenth time, breaking his pencil in half as he stressed the ‘why’. “Why would you kill your wife and child? Your unborn child, the one you’ve been waiting for so long? Or so you told me.”

  Danton Fentiman’s eyes were brimful of tears. He forced them back as he replied. “Yes, I was so happy,” he said. A tear escaped down his cheek. “When she told me we were going to have a baby, I didn’t believe it at first. We’d been trying for all of our married life – nearly four years. I’d – we’d – given up hope and then the miracle happened.”

  Ernie Flagg flung down the broken pencil onto his desk. “Well then! What on earth possessed you to kill her?”

  “Well, it was obvious that miracles don’t really happen. It wasn’t a miracle. My brother told me, didn’t he?”

  “That, my dear man, was just out of pique. When you betrayed him – withdrew your alibi. He just said that to get back at you. Make you wonder. That’s all. Why would you believe him? Did your wife give you any cause to doubt her fidelity?”

  Fentiman turned his head to look out of the window of Ernie’s small office. It was raining. It seemed to have been raining forever.

  “N-no, of course not. Not until – “

  “Until your brother sowed the seed of doubt into your stupid head.”

  “Well, it all made sense, of course. No wonder she got pregnant. She had been with another man. I knew, somewhere deep down, that it was too good to be true that I could be the father.”

  “You were so ready to believe that, you just strangled her with your bare hands? Come off it, man. You’re just not the type.”

  “And what type is that exactly?”

  Ernie Flagg sighed. He stood up, put his hands in his pockets and walked up and down the room. “Not your type.”

  “I’m too nice, is that it?”

  “Well, I would have said so. Yes.”

  There was a silence between them, broken only by the sound of the raindrops hitting the window pane and splashing out of the broken gutter just above it. The wind had strengthened and not only the rain, but some dead leaves, were splattering against the window now. The two men were glad to be in the relative warmth of the police station.

  “You know you will hang, Fentiman?”

  The man shrugged. “I know. You’ll all be doing me a favour. I don’t want to live anymore.”

  “That’s it, isn’t it? You didn’t kill your wife but you don’t want to live anyway. So you want the authorities to kill you, save you doing it yourself. It can be quite messy – suicide. I know, I’ve seen a fair few in my time.”

  Danton Robespierre just shrugged.

  Ernie Flagg swung round and slammed his fist down on his desk. “Come on, tell the truth. You didn’t kill your wife! Did you?”

  Danton returned his gaze steadily, the tears had receded now. “Then, Inspector, just who do you think did?”

  Early Autumn, 1956

  The Reverend Nigel Soames was larger than life in more ways than one. Standing nearly six feet four inches in his Women’s Institute knitted socks, he was also exceptionally wide. Whenever he walked through a normal sized door, people would wonder how he managed not to get stuck there. But, somehow, he was always able to squeeze
through, showing remarkable agility for a man of his size and bulk. Today was no exception as he entered, sideways on, through the door of Bernard’s study.

  “Hello, old chap,” he said without preamble. “Your housekeeper let me in. I told her not to bother to announce me. She seemed to be very busy baking some kind of cake or pie, judging by the amount of flour on her face and up her arms.”

  Bernard smiled at the picture this conjured up. Nancy Harper made delicious pastry of all sorts, but she never managed to do so without making a great deal of mess in the process.

  “Hello, Nigel, take a seat. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Bernard said this with not a modicum of sarcasm. It had never been a pleasure to encounter the Reverend Nigel Soames; a blustering, block-headed bully of a man, in Bernard’s humble opinion.

  The vicar of the parish of St Barnabas, Tooting, sat himself down opposite the vicar. It was a chilly day for September, and there was a welcome fire crackling in the hearth.

  “Thanks, old man. I thought I’d come and see you personally about a matter that I think will be right up your street. I know all about your interest in the occult, you know. You and that doctor friend of yours have something of a reputation, so I believe.”

  Bernard smiled deprecatingly. He was pleased, however, by the compliment. “I suppose – in my small way. Robbie is much more in tune with psychic phenomena than I am, however.”

  “Well, maybe you’d like to run this by him. One of my parishioners came to me the other day telling me that he thought his house was haunted. I mean, I ask you. Haunted! You may believe it, but I certainly don’t. I told him not to be silly and stop wasting my time. But he seemed genuinely worried so, well, I thought I’d bend your ear about it.”

  “I’ve met him already,” said Bernard. “He told me you’d not been very sympathetic…”

  “Hmmph!” said Nigel, slapping his ample thigh. “Well, I ask you. A woman standing in the corner pointing at her finger and sighing. Poppycock!”

  “I wouldn’t have said that,” said Bernard coldly. “Just because you’re not a believer, doesn’t mean that it’s not true. I have an open mind about these things, and I think everyone should be. After all, we’re supposed to believe in the virgin birth. You can’t get much more supernatural than that.”

  Nigel Soames’ ample jowls dropped even lower over his dog collar. “What a thing to say! And you a vicar!”

  “I’m only trying to point out that we shouldn’t be so blinkered in our thinking,” said Bernard, blushing slightly. He realised that what he had just said might amount to blasphemy to his visitor. He hadn’t really meant to offend him, even if the man was a pompous bore.

  “That’s all well and good, Bernard,” said the man crossly. He was silent for a moment. “So – you think there might be some truth in this ridiculous story?”

  Bernard was about to respond, but just at that moment there came a tap on the door and Anbolin walked in. “Hello,” she said, “Mind if I join you? I got wind of your visit, vicar, and I must confess I’m very curious about this haunting. Most illuminating.”

  Bernard stood up and pulled up another chair beside the fire for her. He introduced her to Nigel Soames who rose with some effort to shake her hand. “This lady is a psychic medium and I’ve already told her about this haunting after the man came to see me.”

  “Yes,” she interposed. “It’s the house where a murder took place many years ago. A woman was strangled there, and buried with her unborn child in the garden. No wonder the place is haunted, I’d be surprised if it wasn’t.”

  “Well, madam, that is your opinion. Mine is vastly different. This Squires is an hysteric, or maybe he has been egged on by his wife. Women, in my long experience of the sex, are much more likely to believe this sort of bunkum and thus liable to unnecessary hysteria.”

  At this pronouncement, both Bernard and Anbolin jointly thought they would like to throttle the orotund vicar with their bare hands.

  “You might live to eat your words, Reverend,” said Anbolin slowly and deliberately. “I suggest you accompany myself and Bernard to see this ghost for yourself.”

  At this the vicar of St Barnabas guffawed loudly. “I think, madam, you must be out of your tiny mind if you think I have the time or inclination for such tomfoolery.”

  “Just so,” said Anbolin amiably. “But then, if you won’t put yourself in the way of such things, you are really not qualified to make such derogatory comments about them.”

  Hear hear, thought Bernard. She was a game old girl and no mistake. He had become almost as fond of her as he was of his housekeeper. Except for the fact that she ate him out of house and home, as Nancy Harper had put it, he would have been happy for her to remain under his roof for as long as she liked. She was worth her weight in gold in entertainment value alone.

  Nigel Soames was obviously ruffled. “My dear lady,” he said into his three chins, “I – I didn’t mean to suggest you yourself were an hysteric. I am sure you are sincere in your beliefs. But I am of the opinion that such matters should be dealt with with perspicacity, and best left alone.”

  Anbolin nodded. Maybe this man was more frightened than sceptical. She could relate to that. “So I can’t persuade you to visit this house with me?”

  Bernard smiled at him. “Come on, Nigel,” he said. “Why not? You never know, you might see your first ghost. Won’t that be fun?”

  “I – I’ve got a sermon to write even if you haven’t,” he said, getting up. As he stood his whole body cast a shadow over the assembled company. Bernard thanked his stars that Mrs Aitch hadn’t offered him any food. How did anyone manage to get so fat? Surely they must be eating every waking moment of the day.

  When the visitor had left and light had returned to the room, Anbolin grinned at Bernard and he grinned right back at her.

  “There’s a man with a bee in his bonnet if ever I saw one,” she said with a wink. “We can manage very well without him, anyhow.”

  “I should think we can. When should we pay this Mr – er …”

  “Squires.”

  “Yes, Squires. When should we pay him a visit, do you think?”

  There was a tap on the door at this point and the long shadow of the Reverend Soames loomed over them once more.

  “Yes, Nigel?” Bernard eyed him quizzically. “Did you forget something?”

  The gigantic vicar coughed. “Er, not that I believe in all this rubbish, you understand,” he said, somewhat embarrassed by the stares of both Bernard and Anbolin, the latter grinning from ear to ear. “It’s – well, having weighed up the matter, I suppose I should accompany you on this visit to Squires’ house – just to see for myself. After all, he’s my parishioner and not yours.”

  “Of course,” said Bernard, casting a brief glance at Anbolin. “You are most welcome.”

  “Er, thank you. When are you planning to go?”

  “As soon as possible,” said Anbolin. “I believe the clue to Mrs Fentiman’s killer is to be found there.”

  The Reverend Soames looked puzzled. “Whose killer? I’m not with you.”

  Bernard grinned. “No, of course, you wouldn’t be. But as Anbolin was saying just now, this man’s house was the scene of a nasty wife murder twenty years ago. We are looking into this as there might have been a miscarriage of justice. This ghost in your parishioner’s house could be the clue we’ve been hoping for.”

  “I see.” He didn’t see at all. It was all getting very weird.

  “I’m glad you’ve decided to come, Reverend,” said Anbolin. “You can see for yourself what goes on in psychic circles. I can’t wait to talk to this ghost – I’m sure she’ll be able to enlighten me as to who her real killer was.”

  “Yes, but even if she tells you who did it, that’s not proof. Neverholme’s a patient man, it is to be hoped, but even he runs out of it occasionally.” Bernard couldn’t really blame the Chief Inspector for his scepticism. It was the twentieth century, after all, and even when mediums had
been called in to help the police, there wasn’t a conspicuous amount of success achieved that way. “I mean – just saying it was so-and-so killed her – well, we can’t go to the police with just that.”

  “I am well aware of that,” said Anbolin. “The finger pointing is the key, I’m sure of it and I’m hoping for something of a more tangible nature to take to the police.”

  Winter, 1937

  Beryl Chambers stamped the date into her last book that evening. The snow was falling fast against the library skylight and she wasn’t looking forward to her journey home. Her boots leaked for one thing and her hat was still sopping wet from her lunchtime outing to buy a sandwich. She would definitely be bringing sandwiches from home tomorrow. Why on earth were people out on a night like this anyway, she wondered. Even if your book was overdue, wasn’t it worth paying a penny fine just to stay warm indoors?

  She looked around to make sure everyone had gone. Mr Lindsey, the chief librarian, had gone home half an hour ago, leaving her to lock up. Typical. Just as she was about to return the keys to the office, she saw a man appear from behind one of the shelves. Oh for goodness sake, she thought with irritation, I’ve just locked the date stamp away.

  The man came up to the counter and gave her a nervous smile. “I – I’m sorry, I suppose you’re closed now?”

  He had a soft Yorkshire accent, and it wasn’t an unpleasant sound to Beryl’s ears. He was also quite nice looking in an under-stated way.

  “Yes. I need to get home. The weather’s frightful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, indeed it is. I’m sorry to keep you. I was just looking for a medical book to see if I could find something to help my mother’s condition.”

  “You – you’re not from round here, are you?” said Beryl. “I mean, are you a member? Do you have a ticket?”

  “No to all three questions,” said the man with a grin.

  Beryl grinned too. He really was a most pleasant man.

  “Stanley Mossop, at your service. How do you do?” He reached out his hand to her and she shook it.