The Dark Side of the Mirror

by Pat Herbert

  “Beryl Chambers,” she replied.

  “I’m from Middlesbrough, but I travel in shoes,” he said.

  “It’s to be hoped you do – particularly in weather like this.” They both laughed.

  “No, no. I’m a travelling salesman, for my sins,” he said. “I sell shoes.”

  “Oh, of course. I thought that was what you meant.” Beryl laughed again.

  “I was just looking in the reference section for a medical dictionary or something.”

  “We do have a small selection of medical reference books, Mr Mossop,” she said. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Sort of. I hate being away from mother so long, but I don’t have a choice. She suffers with her nerves, you know.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Is she – I mean, is she on her own?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. My dad was killed in the war when I was eight. And there are no brothers or sisters. Look, I know this is a bit of a cheek, but I’m all alone tonight. You wouldn’t care to have a drink with me?”

  She hesitated. Her mother would be expecting her and have a meal waiting, but she rather fancied a drink and, she had to admit, this man was rather nice. Ever since knowing Inspector Ernie Flagg she hadn’t been interested in other men. Her heart was broken, but time she knew, was a great healer, or so they always said. Life had to go on she supposed, although it was so boring, she couldn’t really think why sometimes.

  “Well –” She looked at him appraisingly. He didn’t look like an axe murderer or anything, so what harm could one drink do?

  “Look, I’m sorry. I know we’ve only just met, but I’ve had such a trying day …”

  Her mind was made up. The Rutting Stag was on her way home anyhow.

  She found Stanley Mossop very easy to talk to and, before long, she had told him all about Ernie Flagg, how she had met him and how they had had to part. He was a sympathetic listener.

  “I was glad to help sort out those twins,” she said. “Ernie had to make me upset so that the nice one would own up to misleading the police. But the awful thing was when he got arrested himself for murdering his wife. I can’t believe he could have done that. He didn’t look like he could have said boo to a goose.”

  “Both their trials are coming up soon, aren’t they?” said Stanley, supping his pint. “I’ve been reading about them in the papers. Do you know, I think I met him on the very day he murdered his wife – you know, Danton Fentiman.”

  Beryl nearly dropped her sherry. “Really? My goodness – what a small world it is!”

  “I didn’t know it at the time, of course, and he denied he was her husband. But there’s no doubt it was him, according to the picture in the paper. I didn’t know I was at that very house, that day, until I read the address and everything. You could have knocked me down with a feather.”

  “They say he had a good reason for murdering her,” said Beryl sadly. “I suppose she had been unfaithful. They say the unborn child wasn’t his.”

  “That could be enough to send someone over the edge, I suppose,” said Stanley, finishing his pint. He wanted another, but sadly, he thought, his companion must be getting home. It was so warm and cosy in the pub, he didn’t want to leave it.

  And neither did Beryl, so Stanley ordered them both another round of drinks.

  Early Autumn, 1956

  Anbolin Amery-Judge was in her favourite corner in the Feathers, supping her port and lemon and nibbling away at a bag of pork scratchings. She eyed Freda Lossways on duty behind the bar and couldn’t help thinking how pretty she was. She could understand why that doctor friend of Bernard’s had fallen for her. He was in again tonight, she noticed, sitting at the bar, staring at Freda like a lovesick puppy.

  Finishing her drink, she hobbled over to the bar and hoisted herself up on the stool next to Robbie.

  “Hello, young man,” she said, as he gave her a hand up. “I’ve been watching you watching the lovely Freda. I thought you weren’t seeing her anymore. According to the vicar anyway.”

  “Bernard can be an interfering busybody at times,” he muttered, swallowing his whisky. “I know he’s right, though. I’m not taking her out anymore, but I’m not about to forsake this pub because of it. I’m just looking. Honestly.”

  “All right,” she grinned, “I believe you, thousands wouldn’t.”

  “Why is life so complicated, old girl?”

  “Because – that’s life, I suppose. I’m more interested in death, actually. Well, dead people, anyway. Them that need to communicate with the living.”

  “Of course you are,” he said indulgently. “Do you want another?” He indicated her empty glass. It was an unnecessary question of course.

  “Lovely,” she said. “And some more of them delicious pork scratchings, please.”

  Freda came and joined them at the signal from Robbie. She gave him a cold stare, but was suitably polite. “Yes, what can I get you?”

  “Same again for this lady, please.”

  She looked at him, puzzled. “And for you?”

  “Nothing, thanks. I’m off.”

  So saying, he stood up, paid for Anbolin’s drink and snack, raised his hat to both women, and started to walk towards the door. A thought suddenly struck him and he turned round.

  “Sorry, dear lady,” he said. “I never thought. Do you need an escort back to the vicarage? It’s a dark night and there are probably rogues about.”

  Anbolin gave a snort of laughter. “If there are, Robbie,” she grinned, “I’ll hit them with my handbag.”

  He looked at the size and shape of the said bag, and nodded. “Point taken. I wouldn’t like to be on the end of that myself.”

  Reassured that the old lady was well able to take care of herself, Robbie left the pub. Anbolin watched Freda’s face as he did so and patted her hand.

  “There, child. It’s better this way. You know your relationship could never last. You’re a married woman and it’s my bet he’s a confirmed bachelor. Besides, he’s much too old for you, you know.”

  None of this seemed to convince Freda, however. “He said he really cared about me.” She sniffed unhappily. “Then all of a sudden he tells me we can’t see each other anymore.”

  “And then he comes in here, torturing you with his presence, eh?”

  Freda gave another sniff and wiped a beer glass vigorously. “He’s a sadist, that’s what he is.”

  “Never mind, child. At least I’ve got some good news for you.”

  “You have?” She said this as if she couldn’t have been less interested.

  “I have. I can categorically tell you that your father didn’t kill your mother. That’s the good news.”

  Freda was mildly interested now. “How do you know for certain? It was so long ago.”

  Anbolin proceeded to explain.

  “You said that was the good news,” said Freda, picking up another wet glass and giving it a flick with the tea towel. “Meaning, I assume, there’s some bad news to follow?”

  Anbolin wasn’t sure how she was going to take the fact that her stepmother had stabbed her mother with the bread knife. But there was no love lost between them anyway, she reasoned to herself.

  “Stabbed her with the bread knife? So she killed my mother! The evil bitch! I bet my dad knows!”

  The wet glass slipped from her hand and crashed to the floor. The pub as one man turned to stare in the direction of the noise.

  “No, dear, don’t take on so,” said Anbolin quickly. “She only stabbed her in a rage. She didn’t mean to kill her, but she was so angry because she was leaving you with her while she went to meet her fancy man…”

  “Even so, that was no reason to kill her…”

  “No, she didn’t kill her, dear. It was only a flesh wound, I believe. Little more. There was a serial killer at the time who finished your poor mother off. God rest her soul.”

  “A serial killer? Where did he come from?”

  “There was a spate of unsol
ved murders back then, all women of – shall we say – easy virtue.”

  “Prostitutes, do you mean? My mother wasn’t a prostitute!” She screamed this out and the pub, again as one man, turned to look at her.

  “Hush!” said Anbolin, “Everyone’s looking.”

  “Don’t care! My mother wasn’t a prostitute!”

  “No, no, dear. She wasn’t, but she got taken for one, hanging about the alley by the cinema waiting for her lover – the man who got hanged for her murder. Before he showed up, the killer had struck again. Very tragic. If he’d have been a few minutes earlier, he might have saved her life, not, as it turned out, hanged for taking it.”

  Freda tried to process all this new information, but found it difficult. She collected up the fragments of broken glass and put them in the bin under the counter.

  “So, let me get this straight,” she said after a moment. “My stepmother stabbed my mother because she was off to see her lover …”

  Anbolin interrupted her at this point. “Not just for that reason, dear. For abandoning you and for telling her that she was about to take forty pounds from her lover for an abortion that was no longer needed. Your mother, dear, I’m sorry to say, wasn’t all that she should be.”

  Freda was in tears now. This news about her mother had affected her more than Anbolin had expected. She hadn’t thought it through. She had believed that the news that her father was innocent of her mother’s murder – something that she knew Freda had always suspected – would be a relief to her. The information would allow her to get on with her life, move on, maybe divorce a husband she didn’t love and return to the family home. But a knife-wielding stepmother and a mother who was killed mistaken for a prostitute were factors that obviously outweighed the relatively good news about her father. But, she wondered, were the tears for her poor, dead, misguided mother or for her loss of Robbie? Six of one, half a dozen of the other, she suspected.

  Freda calmed down after a few moments and went to serve a customer. The man was concerned to see her so upset. Anbolin noticed he was very handsome and, she couldn’t be sure, but wasn’t there just a spark of something in the pretty barmaid’s eye as she pulled his pint?

  “Now, my dear,” said Anbolin when Freda returned to her. “All will be well. You’ll see. Why not make it up with your father – I’m sure he’ll be happy that you no longer believe him a murderer. And if you are in an unhappy marriage, maybe you need to address that problem now.”

  Freda blew her nose, and gave the old lady a tentative smile. “Maybe you’re right. My – my husband’s not a bad man – it’s just that I fell for Robbie, you know?”

  Anbolin gave her a cheeky wink. “I suspect many women have fallen for him, dear. He’s a handsome devil, all right. But I noticed that gentleman you served just now. He seemed very concerned about you.”

  “Oh, that’s just Freddie. He’s a dear.” She said this dismissively, but a blush spread across her face all the same.

  Anbolin finished her pork scratchings and swallowed her port and lemon. “Now, I must go. I believe Mrs Aitch was making another batch of jam tarts before I left this evening.”

  Freda laughed despite everything. No matter what was wrong in her world, she couldn’t help loving this dear old woman who was never far from thinking about her stomach and what next to put into it.

  After Anbolin had left she went over to Freddie and offered him a pint on the house.

  Early Autumn, 1956

  “So, what is it this time?”

  Basil Fentiman had had to use up some of his precious petrol ration once more to drive to his brother’s house because he’d been told the ghost of their uncle was still haunting his garden shed.

  “He asked specially to speak to you,” said Carl crossly. “I’m sure I’m just as capable of talking to his ghost as you are.”

  Basil smiled. He knew exactly why his uncle preferred to talk to him. He had liked him much better as a boy than Carl. And the feeling was mutual. Basil had loved his uncle more than his father, if truth be told. Danton was a warm-hearted, loving man. Their father, Robespierre, didn’t even have the time of day for him. He had always preferred his wilder, more mischievous brother.

  They entered the shed together and waited for the manifestation. It didn’t take long for Danton’s ghost to materialise in front of them.

  “Hello,” he said. He swung around on his rope and looked at both of them. Which one of them was Basil? He would know directly he spoke.

  “Hello, uncle,” said Basil. “You wanted to talk to me?”

  Danton smiled at him. “How have you been keeping, Basil?” he asked. “Did you miss me when I – when I …”

  “When you were hanged?” he finished for him.

  “Yes. Did you miss our walks in the park? Do you remember that sailing boat I gave you the Christmas before --- we had some fun floating it on the lake, didn’t we?”

  Basil remembered that boat with affection. It was the best Christmas present he’d ever had. His father had usually bought him socks. Robespierre always gave the toy trains and water pistols to his brother.

  “Yes, Uncle Dan, we did. How are you?”

  The question didn’t really apply as the man was dead, of course. “Well, you know how it is,” he replied, trying to think just exactly how he was. “Being dead I don’t really know. I’m not in any physical pain, but I suppose you could say I’m not at peace. Not like my blasted brother.”

  “I see. Well, what can I do to help you?”

  “I was all right till your father got exonerated for that woman’s murder. I didn’t mind being dead when he was in the same situation as me. But if it could be proved that Robey didn’t kill his lover, surely it can be proved that I didn’t kill my wife either. Stands to reason.”

  “But – but, uncle, you confessed.”

  “I know, I know. Everybody keeps telling me that. But you must understand I had nothing to live for with my darling Charmian dead and buried. But now I find I want our family name cleared for good and all. Besides I’d rather like to know who did actually kill her.”

  Basil could understand that. If his uncle didn’t kill his wife after all, than somebody else did. And that person had got away with it. After twenty years what chance was there of finding the perpetrator now? He voiced this to his uncle’s ghost.

  Carl joined in at this point. “Yes, you must see that, uncle. Best let sleeping dogs lie now. At least our dad’s in the clear.” It seemed he couldn’t care less about his uncle’s predicament.

  “I know you never liked me much, Carl,” said Danton. “And, to be honest, you were a naughty boy most of the time. I didn’t approve of your behaviour. Your brother was a saint in comparison to you.”

  Carl sneered. “A big drip, you mean. Too frightened to put a foot wrong. When I scrumped apples he was always at the bottom of the tree telling me to come down. Scaredy cat.”

  He gave his brother a smirk. Basil smirked back. “I’d rather be a law-abiding citizen any day, than a rotten birds’ egg stealer and cat tormenter like you.”

  “Boys will be boys,” said Carl blithely.

  Danton interrupted them. “Can you carry on this squabble later, boys? I need to get an assurance from at least one of you that you’ll try and find out who really killed your aunt.”

  Basil answered. “I promise to do what I can, Uncle Dan. And so will Carl.” Carl shrugged. “Yes, so will Carl,” he reiterated. “The family name affects him just as much as me. Remember, Carl, there’s still a murderer in our family and mud sticks.”

  Carl saw the sense in that. “All right, uncle. We’ll do what we can. I understand that old trout’s looking into it anyway. She came up trumps for our dad so maybe she’ll do the same for you.”

  Danton swung round on his rope as he began to dematerialise.

  “Just be patient a bit longer,” said Basil. “You can’t expect miracles.”

  Danton, who had now more or less evaporated, thought that the very fact
that he was able to communicate as a spirit with the living was miracle enough. But he no longer had the power to speak this thought. He wanted a miracle or two and he wanted it fast. Why should Robey get the free pardon when all his life he’d been a villain? All right, so he’d never robbed a bank or murdered anyone (at least so it would seem now) but he wasn’t a nice person and didn’t deserve, in Danton’s opinion, to be exonerated. It didn’t cease to matter just because you were dead either.

  The two brothers were now in an empty shed, apart from the aborted bookcase and various gardening and DIY implements surrounding them.

  “I think we must try and find out the truth, Carl,” said Basil placatingly.

  His twin shrugged. “I suppose so,” he said. “But the old trout will be onto it, why not leave the sleuthing to her? She thinks she’s Miss Marple anyway.”

  “All right,” said Basil with a grin. “Maybe that would be best. Besides, I haven’t a clue how to go about it myself. No doubt she’ll be in touch when she has some news.”

  “Hello, boys.”

  The voice came from the shed’s open window. Anbolin’s venerable old head was poked through. “Thought you’d like to know that I’m about to find out who really killed your aunt.”

  Both men laughed. She was a true clairvoyant, if ever there was one.

  Early Autumn, 1956

  Number twelve Elsiemaud Road looked much like number ten Elsiemaud Road and was the spitting image of number fourteen Elsie Maud Road. Sandwiched in between two other houses, the little terraced home looked harmless and even inviting. You could take your granny and young family up its garden path, ring its bell, and feel safe in the knowledge that when the door was opened to you inside would be a welcome, a tray of afternoon tea and a cat purring in front of the fire. It was not the sort of domicile that would even entertain the idea of a murder within its walls.

  Well that was on the surface, of course. As Anbolin, Bernard and Robbie arrived outside this same house, all three began to tremble slightly at the thought of what they were likely to find inside. Already waiting for them, leaning much of his heavy weight on the front gate was the Reverend Nigel Soames. He consulted his watch as the three arrived, fresh from a battle on a crowded London omnibus. It was only a stone’s throw from Wandsworth to Tooting if you looked at a London map, but journeying from A to B via London Transport stretched that stone’s throw into almost Olympic proportions.