So Long at the Fair

by Pat Herbert

  SO LONG AT THE FAIR

  A Reverend Paltoquet

  Supernatural Murder Mystery

  by

  Pat Herbert

  OTHER NOVELS IN THE

  REVEREND PALTOQUET SERIES:

  The Bockhampton Road Murders

  Haunted Christmas

  The Possession of November Jones

  The Witches of Wandsworth

  The Man Who Was Death

  The Dark Side of the Mirror

  Sleeping With the Dead

  The Corpse Wore Red

  Seeing Double

  THE BARNEY CARMICHAEL CRIME SERIES:

  Getting Away with Murder

  The Murder in Weeping Lane

  The Mop and Bucket Murders

  ALSO BY PAT HERBERT:

  Death Comes Gift Wrapped

  The Long Shadow

  PROLOGUE

  May 1896

  “Mama! Mama! Nana doesn’t believe us, but we saw her! We both did! Mama! Mama!”

  The twins were much loved by their mother but never so much as when they were off somewhere with their nanny. Today she had one of her headaches, and the last thing she needed was her two ‘darlings’ badgering her about a woman they saw falling off the Big Wheel at the fair on the Common. They were lively little girls with imaginations to match, but she couldn’t be doing with their silly stories while her head was throbbing like this. They had been so excited about going to the fair; they had driven her almost mad with their nonsense and caused her headache in the first place.

  Now, they were back and telling her some ridiculous story about a woman who had apparently fallen from the Big Wheel. That would have been awful enough if it had been true, but then they gave themselves away by telling her the woman had then fallen off again, and then again. Three times! It wasn’t possible, of course, and Nanny had told her categorically that she had seen nothing nor, it would seem, had any of the other fairgoers. A woman falling from the top of the Big Wheel would have been hard to miss, especially if she kept on doing it. But the children were adamant.

  “We saw her, Mama,” they insisted, both vying to climb on their mother’s ample lap.

  “My lap isn’t big enough for both of you,” their mother protested, although, in truth, it was. Since she had given birth to them, she had expanded year on year and, as they were now eight years old, she was fast verging on obesity.

  “Just what did you think you saw?” she asked her children resignedly. She could see she would get no peace until she had heard them out. Nanny was preparing their tea in the nursery, so soon they would be called away. Maybe it wasn’t such a hardship to listen to them wittering on for a few more minutes.

  “She was a pretty lady, Mama,” said one. “Ever so pretty. She was on the top of the Big Wheel, standing up and looking straight at us. Then she suddenly just fell to the ground. Plop! Just like that.”

  “We ran up to the Wheel and told the man to stop it,” said the other, taking over. “We told him the lady had fallen off, but he just laughed and asked us where she was.”

  “And she wasn’t there,” added her twin looking almost ready to cry with frustration. “There wasn’t anybody.”

  “Then we told Nanny what we saw, but she said we mustn’t make up stories. She agreed with the man. She said nobody had fallen from the Wheel. And she was holding our hands when we saw her so she would have seen her too, wouldn’t she?”

  “Well, my dears,” said their mother with a patient sigh. “You know it isn’t possible for someone to fall more than once from a great height like the Big Wheel. They would be dead, or at least not very well. They certainly wouldn’t have been able to get up and fall off the Wheel again. Don’t you see?”

  “’Spose so.” Both of them nodded but looked unconvinced. Then one of them piped up. “We did see her, Mama! We did!”

  “That’s right,” echoed the other. “We did!”

  “And it was the same lady?” Their mother was smiling now. It was amusing how her little ones could make up such tall tales and keep their little faces straight as they told them. “Not a different one each time?”

  “No, it was the exact same one,” they declared, stamping their feet in unison, for all the world like a couple of little tap dancers.

  Both girls looked expectantly into their mother’s face, waiting for an explanation for the afternoon’s inexplicable events. Luckily for their bewildered mother, their nanny appeared in the parlour doorway at that moment and hurried her daughters off to their tea.

  Left alone, she smoothed her dress and picked up her sampler. As she plied her needle, she tried to puzzle out why her children would have made up such an unbelievable story. What was behind it all? She rubbed her aching forehead and applied some lavender water.

  She supposed it was a phase they were going through. Maybe their bedtime stories were too exciting for them. She would have a word with Nanny and see if they couldn’t find some more suitable literature for her two eight-year-olds. Yes, that was best. They would soon settle down again. Maybe, she thought, they shouldn’t visit the fair again, at least not until they were a bit older.

  But the image of a beautiful woman falling from the Big Wheel in a crowded fairground would not leave her. Somehow, and she didn’t know how, she believed it had really happened. The woman had fallen, but not today. She vaguely remembered reading about a woman who had been killed in just such a manner not so long ago and at that very same fairground. A coincidence? She didn’t think so, and she suddenly knew her daughters had spoken the truth.

  They had seen a vision from the past, as crazy as that seemed to her. There was no other explanation. But what did it mean? Why had her daughters seen this woman? She sighed and only hoped her children would soon forget their bad experience. She continued to sew but stopped after a few stitches. She wondered just exactly what had happened that day a year ago when the woman had fallen. Had someone pushed her? She couldn’t remember. She supposed she would never find out now.

  PART ONE

  Before

  Chapter One

  August 1891

  Many eyes, mostly male, were on Olivia Ayrton-Williams as she removed her cloak and handed it to the maidservant. She was a stunning, tall, swan-like creature with emerald green eyes and intricately coiffured chestnut hair which looked as if it had taken hours to create, and probably had. This was the first musical soirée she had attended since moving into the borough of Wandsworth over a year ago, despite several earlier invitations from the daunting dowager who organised the entertainment for her distinguished guests.

  Olivia was a young widow, whose husband had died of a violent stomach disorder shortly before she had moved into the area from the far reaches of St John’s Wood. Wandsworth represented rather a comedown for her, due to her husband’s meagre will which revealed he hadn’t been as well off as he had led her to believe. Still, she had said to herself, preening her luxuriant hair in front of the hall mirror prior to leaving for the soiree, “beggars can’t be choosers”. The only thing she could do was make sure she wasn’t a ‘beggar’ for too much longer.

  Her emerald green velvet cloak matched her eyes perfectly and, knowing this only too well, was loath to remove it. The pale cream dress underneath wasn’t nearly so spectacular, even though it showed off her shapely figure to advantage. It was too old, not the latest fashion, but it was the best item in her wardrobe. For now.

  She flicked her fan out to hide her face while she eyed the assembled guests carefully over the top of it. Here, she thought, could be her next husband. They all looked fairly well off although most, she could see, were attached to women partners and quite a lot older than she would have desired. Still, these considerations had never stood in her way in the pa
st, not even when she was just plain Olivia Browne. Anyway, a man’s marital status was of little account to her; after all, didn’t her late husband already have a wife when she met him?

  Having thoroughly searched the room for suitable ‘victims’, she finally settled on a handsome young man, even though he was obviously accompanied by his wife. Sitting down in the conveniently empty chair on his right, she gave Humphrey Downing a sidelong glance without turning her head.

  Yes, she thought, he’ll do. His wife was certainly no threat to her plans, that was certain. She was a pleasant enough looking woman, but quite anaemic in comparison to herself. She caught Humphrey’s eye and quickly looked down demurely at her lap. She played with her fan for a moment then lifted her face to meet his gaze which she knew was still fixed on her. He smiled at her, but she didn’t return the smile. She gave him a haughty glare instead and made a great pretence of listening to the awful soprano murdering Mendelssohn’s Hear My Prayer.

  When the performance was over, the audience politely applauded and waited hopefully for the next item in their programmes. He or she could only be an improvement, thought Olivia, flapping her fan vigorously to hide her amusement. Where did they get these so-called artistes, she wondered. Her late husband had sung better in the bath.

  Humphrey continued to eye her as the feeble applause died away and a bejewelled and bedecked lady of uncertain age seated herself at the grand piano just vacated by the soprano’s accompanist. Olivia was amused to see him remove some cotton wool from his ears as he left the room. Humphrey, oblivious of all this, had only eyes for the beautiful lady on his right.

  The pianist struck the keys with aplomb and played competently enough, thus rescuing the old dowager’s soiree from being a complete fiasco. As they were leaving, Humphrey slipped a note into Olivia’s hand. It was very carefully done, and no eyes, not even those of his wife, saw what he did.

  Even so, Mrs Hannah Downing had been aware of her husband’s interest in Olivia and knew at once that he was about to start another of his inevitable liaisons. However, they never lasted more than a few months, and she had long since decided to ignore them as he always came back to her in the end.

  It was a fact of life, she supposed, that men needed these outlets and as long as he was discreet, she could live with them. It had been a long time since she and Humphrey had demonstrated any real affection for each other. The few times he had come to her bed had not produced any children; only loathing within her very bones for the sex act itself. So, it was a small price to pay if it prevented him from making demands on her in that direction.

  But, as she cast a surreptitious eye over Olivia, she began to be afraid. Here was a different prospect altogether. She was so incredibly beautiful that she feared Humphrey would be under her spell for longer than most of the others. Hannah Downing had never been a woman of strong emotions, but she saw in Olivia someone who could destroy her life just by batting those eyelashes. It wasn’t to be contemplated. Humphrey belonged to her and her alone.

  Chapter Two

  September 1894

  “We must do something soon, Humphrey. We can’t go on like this. I am not prepared to be a laughing stock for much longer.”

  Humphrey Downing sat on the edge of the crumpled bed and tied his cravat. He turned to his mistress and gave her what he thought was one of his most devastating smiles. Olivia Ayrton-Williams wasn’t in the mood to receive it, however, as she adjusted her garter.

  “How long have we been meeting like this?” she continued, as her lover didn’t seem able to answer.

  He had had his fun for the afternoon, and all was well in his world. He would now go home to his little wife and leave her to wait for another visit when the mood took him, or he could find the time. She knew she should be grateful that he had set her up in this flat overlooking Regent’s Park. It was costing him a fortune to keep her and his wife.

  “You said you were going to do something, Humphrey,” she persisted. “You said you were going to get your wife committed to an asylum. You promised me!”

  Humphrey sighed. “But it takes time, sweetheart,” he said patiently. “I am sowing the seeds, and she is already aware that she is not well in her head. But we must tread carefully; we don’t want to upset the applecart at this stage. Not when things are going our way.”

  “Going our way?” Olivia wasn’t fooled by his silver words. “How can you say that? I have been your mistress for three years, and for most of that time you have been assuring me you will find a way to leave her and get your hands on her money. You told me you had a plan to derange her mind so that you would have power of attorney, but I have seen no evidence of it so far.”

  “Little by little, dear,” he said, chucking her under the chin.

  He had bedded Olivia soon after their first assignation three years ago, something that had surprised even him. He had been used to spending money on flowers, fripperies, and confectionary before he got any tangible results, but she had been different. The preliminaries had been dispensed with almost immediately, and he had never tired of her in all that time. Her dazzling loveliness was a constant source of wonder to him and, even though she could often be petty and vixenish, he never noticed, so blinded was he by her beauty. He could deny her nothing, except the one thing she really wanted: for him to be free to marry her.

  He had offered to leave his wife, but that would have meant living in poverty. She had told him in no uncertain terms she wasn’t prepared for that and, truth to tell, neither was he. He must get her committed to a mental institution without further delay, she had insisted.

  But it wasn’t that simple. Hannah Downing was much wealthier than he was and she, very sensibly, had kept control of her money in a separate account at her father’s bank. Any unusual activity on that account, Humphrey knew, would be picked up immediately. She had made him a generous allowance, but sometimes the demands Olivia made on him caused him to draw on that allowance too much. The last item, a pearl necklace, had been very difficult to conceal. The necklace, he had told Olivia, would be the last thing he could buy her for a while.

  He had been shocked at how angry she had been at this but, as usual, he had managed to find excuses for her. If he had stopped, at any point in his long liaison with her, to think about her love of money and what it could buy, he might have suspected she was only with him for what she could get out of him. But he chose not to think.

  Humphrey knew Olivia’s patience was almost at an end, and the thought of losing her was driving him wild. All his life he had lived by his wits. His income, before he married Hannah, was extremely limited. His brother had got the lion’s share of his father’s will as well as his affection.

  When he married the opulent Hannah Latimer five years ago, he had welcomed the reversal in his fortunes and had been, for the first two years at least, quite content with his bargain. He hadn’t been in love with her, but he had been in love with her money. It hadn’t hurt that she was quite pretty in an obvious sort of way, but she didn’t have his whole heart. She, it seemed, hadn’t been in love with him either, repulsing his attempts at lovemaking as much as possible.

  It was no wonder he had turned to other women, of whom Olivia was the latest and, for him, the last. He wanted to marry her as much as she wanted to marry him, but he, like Olivia, wanted to maintain the lifestyle he was used to. And the only hope of achieving that was if his wife were to lose her wits or, failing that, die. These were the only two alternatives, as far as he could see, of getting his hands on her money.

  Humphrey sighed as he put on his coat, preparing to leave. Olivia brushed a stay hair from his lapel and pecked him on the cheek. “You’d better do something soon, Humphrey. I can’t wait forever for you.”

  He paused as she said this, ready to reassure her as usual, but then continued on his way out of the flat without another word. What was the point? He knew she didn’t believe him anymore.

  Chapter Three

  September 1894

&
nbsp; Richard Latimer had always admired his younger sister’s good looks but looking at her that afternoon with the late summer sun pouring in through the latticed windows highlighting her crow’s feet and layers of fat around her once swanlike neck, he could see the years hadn’t been kind to her. She looked much older than her age, overweight and careworn.

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, dear,” he said tentatively, “but you’re not looking quite yourself today. Is anything wrong? Are you unwell?”

  Hannah Downing smiled grimly at him. Richard had always been very close to her, and she had always relied on him for support and comfort right from a small child until the day she married Humphrey. Richard had given her away in the absence of their father who had been confined to bed with a severe attack of gout.

  She remembered her father telling her that day his responsibility for her welfare was now transferred to her new husband, and she remembered, too, how bitter he had been. Arthur Latimer had warned her not to marry Humphrey Downing, but she had gone against his wishes and suspected the gout was a fabrication which had made her very sad.

  Looking at Humphrey by her side on that day, she had felt some qualms but had swept them aside. She wasn’t getting any younger, and her looks were already starting to fade. Humphrey was handsome and seemed fond of her, so what more could she want? And yet here she was, five years later, aware that her marriage had been a sham from the start.

  “I’m as well as can be expected, Richard,” she replied, “...in the circumstances. How is Beatrice?”

  Beatrice was Richard’s young wife of twenty-two who had just given birth to their first child. Richard was still brimming with pride at the marvel that was his five-day-old son, Aubrey.