Watching the Ghosts (23 page)

Seeing Judith Dodds' body like that had shaken Lydia but she tried not to show it at work. And when her boss had told her to take her lunch break while they were quiet, she'd decided to buy a sandwich and eat it in the Museum Gardens. It was a fine day and the place was always lively.

She strolled in through the gates, lunch in hand, wondering what Joe was doing at that moment. She hoped he'd be free that evening, partly because Judith Dodds' murder had made her nervous about being alone in Boothgate House and partly because she needed reassurance that last night hadn't been a mistake. He'd seemed a little distant that morning, but then he'd had a lot on his mind. She told herself that if Joe wasn't free she should visit one of her friends, Amy perhaps . . . but that would mean coming home in the darkness to that empty place and somehow that prospect seemed even worse.

Something, a movement caught out of the corner of her eye, made her glance to her right at the medieval undercroft. Alan Proud was standing there, watching her with a self-satisfied smirk on his face and her heart began to race as she began to half walk, half run towards the abbey ruins. He looked as though he was waiting for somebody but the way he'd stared at her so intently made her uneasy. She walked on quickly, relieved when she reached the tourist-filled shelter of the abbey walls.

Sanctuary.

When Joe had taken a quick look inside the notebook he'd found in the clock he'd discovered that half the words were abbreviated and the handwriting was appalling, little more than a scrawl. Deciphering it would need considerable thought and effort so it would have to wait till later.

He looked at his watch. He needed to speak to Cecil Bentham and although his nephew had implied that he wasn't up to visitors, he was sure that a casual word would do no harm. He had the old man's address, Flower Street, just outside the city walls. He knew it would take less time to get there on foot than it would take to struggle through the traffic in a car so, after telling Emily where he was headed, he left the police station and crossed the road. He took his jacket off. It was a warm day even though a shroud of cloud hid the sun from view.

Cecil Bentham lived in a small Georgian cottage, plain and sober unlike the pub next door which was festooned with baskets containing cascades of colourful flowers. When Joe raised the black lion head knocker he heard a shuffling behind the door which opened to reveal a tall, elderly man with thinning grey hair, combed across to hide his bare, shiny scalp. Joe introduced himself and Bentham made a careful examination of his ID, as though he suspected him of being an impostor, but eventually he stood aside to let him in. There was no sign of ill health. In fact Joe thought he looked pretty sprightly for his age.

‘How are you, Mr Bentham?' he asked, following the old man as he made his slow progress down the narrow hall and into a claustrophobic drawing room crammed with antique furniture and ornaments. The fruits of his labours over the years, the reward of being in the know.

‘I'm feeling much better, thank you.' His thin, pale lips, still bearing faint traces of toothpaste, twitched upwards in a half-hearted smile. ‘My nephew will be relieved when I finally get back to work so he can get on with his writing.' He said the last word with a faint touch of irony, as though he didn't quite approve.

‘I need to ask you about the long-cased clock you purchased from a Mrs Dodds. She lived at Oriel House in Hilton.'

Bentham nodded with polite interest, giving no hint that he'd noticed Joe's use of the past tense.

‘You knew her father, I believe . . . Dr Pennell?'

It was a long shot but when the old man gave a cautious nod it seemed that Joe had struck lucky and he suddenly felt hopeful that his visit wouldn't be a waste of time.

‘How well did you know him?'

There was a long silence before he answered. ‘I don't know how much my nephew's told you.'

‘Only that Pennell was the Medical Superintendent at Havenby Hall. Did you know him socially . . . or maybe you were a patient of his at one time?' Joe hoped that if he kept on digging, he'd eventually strike gold. But when Bentham stood up and asked him to leave, he was surprised. And curious.

‘What is it you don't want to tell me, Mr Bentham?' he asked. ‘Is it something about Havenby Hall . . . something that happened to one of your family?' This was pure guesswork but it seemed to get results. Bentham looked angry.

‘Whatever you've heard, it's all lies.'

‘Then why don't you give me your version of events?' Joe leaned forward and waited expectantly. More often than not the tactic worked with criminals. The urge to fill a vacuum of silence is sometimes irresistible.

‘My wife was ill . . . very ill. She was admitted to Havenby Hall but she suffered a stroke and died three weeks later. That's all.'

Joe said nothing but his brain was working fast. Dorothy Watts had supposedly died of an unexpected stroke. Perhaps a pattern was emerging.

‘My wife died of natural causes and nothing could be done.'

‘Is that what Dr Pennell told you?'

‘I'm sure even a policeman can understand that it's distressing to talk about it. And as for Sebastian's play . . . he didn't know the pain he was causing when he cashed in on my grief. Because that's what he's been doing.' He turned his head away, his eyes damp with tears. ‘Now I'd like you to leave.'

Joe sat there for a few moments. He'd known there was something Sebastian had been holding back and if Cecil Bentham was telling the truth, he must have been furious with his nephew for making use of such a disturbing episode in his family's past.

‘I'm sorry if I've raked up painful memories but this is connected to a murder enquiry,' he said as he stood up. ‘Did you speak to a woman called Melanie Hawkes? She was a solicitor and she was making enquiries into the death of a former patient at Havenby Hall.'

Bentham shook his head. ‘I told her I couldn't help her and I'm telling you the same,' he said, pressing his lips together in a stubborn line.

As Joe left the house he was weighed down by an uncomfortable feeling of guilt . . . and this time it didn't concern Lydia.

When Joe returned to the police station he was glad to see that some of the old files he'd requested had finally arrived, including a report on the death of Lydia's grandfather, Dr Reginald Speed, in a road traffic accident back in 1980. He opened the file and read the typed pages inside. Dr Speed had been killed in a hit-and-run incident outside his house in Pickby. And the one woman who'd witnessed it swore to the police that the car had been driven at him deliberately. The doctor had been pronounced dead at the scene and nobody could imagine why anybody would want to kill such an inoffensive, caring man.

But Joe was sure he knew the answer. Dr Speed had acted as a locum at Havenby Hall. Somebody had torn his notes out of the Medical Superintendent's log book that Judith Dodds had passed to Lydia and then the locum had been silenced . . . permanently. Joe could only conclude that Dr Speed had discovered something going on at Havenby Hall. Something somebody wanted to keep hidden. And with the deaths of Melanie Hawkes, Judith Dodds and Karl Dremmer, he feared that anybody who might be about to stumble on that secret could still be at risk.

He wondered whether Sebastian Bentham had encountered any threats in the course of his research. He hadn't mentioned anything but perhaps he ought to have another word . . . just to be sure.

He pushed the file to one side, suddenly remembering the clock. Lydia had told him that she'd seen the thing in her nightmares and the only place she could have seen it was if she'd stayed with her grandfather at Havenby Hall. Perhaps she'd witnessed something terrible there as a small child, something that had stayed dormant in her brain until she'd returned to the building all those years later. A dozen frightening possibilities marched through his head. If the killer knew that Lydia had witnessed something . . .

‘I've been checking out that Mrs Chambers, the matron you asked about.'

He looked up and saw Jamilla standing by his desk, her notebook in her hand.

‘Her first name was Christabel which is fairly uncommon so I thought finding her would be easy. I've looked through death records and the census . . . also whether she's been employed since Havenby Hall closed.' She gave an uncharacteristically dramatic shrug. ‘Absolutely nothing. It's as if she just vanished off the face of the earth. Although she was never reported missing either.'

‘Maybe she changed her identity.'

‘It's a possibility. She was divorced from her husband back in the nineteen sixties and it doesn't look as if there were any children of the marriage. Of course she might have gone abroad. Retired to the Costa del Sol or something like that.'

Joe sighed. ‘She might,' he said. ‘Or perhaps she was murdered too and her body hasn't been found yet.'

Jamilla nodded. She'd considered this possibility too. ‘That nurse called Jean Smith you mentioned . . . the one Betty Morcroft said had got too curious. Her full name was Jean Margaret Smith and she was reported missing by her sister in 1979. She hasn't turned up since, alive or dead.'

‘Thanks for trying.' Joe gave her a grateful smile just as the phone on his desk began to ring. He picked up the receiver. It was George Merryweather. Did Joe have time for a quick word? He asked him to wait and covered the mouthpiece.

Jamilla had been about to return to her desk but Joe had a thought. ‘Are you any good at deciphering bad handwriting?'

Jamilla grinned. ‘I always like a challenge.'

Joe passed her the notebook he'd found in the clock. ‘See what you can make of that.'

She took it and flicked through the book, raising her eyebrows as if she was wondering whether she'd been too hasty to volunteer. As soon as she'd gone Joe resumed his call.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, George. What can I do for you?'

‘Beverley Newson wants me to visit the basement at Boothgate House again. She said she wants me to get rid of whatever's down there. I must admit I'm intrigued. I've talked to Karl Dremmer's colleagues at the university and they told me his instruments definitely picked up something out of the ordinary; drops in temperature and points of light that defy scientific explanation. And then there were the builders who reported strange goings on.'

‘Visit the place by all means, George, but be careful. After what happened to Dremmer . . .'

‘Nice of you to be so concerned, Joe.'

Joe suddenly visualized Karl Dremmer's dead body and felt a concern for his friend that verged on panic. ‘Anyway, it's a crime scene so I can't let you down there unsupervised,' he said quickly. I'll come down with you if you like.'

‘What about tonight?'

Joe hesitated. It was tonight that Hawkes was due to deliver the money to Daisy's kidnappers.

‘I can't make it tonight. How does tomorrow suit you?'

‘It's not me I'm thinking of. It's Miss Newson. She's getting very nervous, poor woman.'

‘In that case go round in daylight. Tell the constable on duty you have my permission . . . and make sure he hangs around.'

He replaced the receiver hoping George wouldn't do anything risky. But he knew that if Beverley Newson was in a state of panic, George's conscience wouldn't allow him to ignore her.

He saw Emily making for his desk. She'd just been briefing the Superintendent on their progress and she looked haggard, as though he'd been giving her a bad time.

‘Any luck with Cecil Bentham?' she asked wearily.

‘His wife died in Havenby Hall . . . in exactly the same way as Chris Torridge's aunt, Dorothy Watts. The one Melanie Hawkes was investigating.'

‘You think the deaths weren't natural?'

‘I don't know. I'd like to find out why Karl Dremmer tried to chip away at that far wall. I'd like it demolished.'

Emily raised her eyebrows. ‘We'd need Creeny's permission . . . and, according to the plans we've got, the basement doesn't continue under the rest of the building. I've even asked the search team to keep an eye out for another entrance but they haven't reported anything.'

‘All the same, I'd like to make sure.'

Emily fell silent for a while. And when she finally spoke she sounded worried. ‘If you're right and there were deaths in that place that weren't natural, this could be the biggest scandal . . .'

‘Jamilla's examining a notebook that probably belonged to the Medical Superintendent. It might tell us something.'

‘How did you get it?'

‘Long story.' He hardly wanted to tell Emily about Lydia's nightmares. It would seem like a betrayal of trust. He looked over at Jamilla and was glad to see that the notebook was open in front of her and she was making notes, deep in concentration.

‘There was somebody – a patient – who helped Sebastian Bentham with the research he carried out for his play. His name wasn't in Melanie Hawkes' file but I'd like to speak to him . . . just in case.'

‘Did that play you saw contain anything about murder?'

‘No. It was set twenty years earlier and it was about a girl who'd been put into an asylum by her family for getting pregnant. Nasty and disturbing but I believe that sort of thing was fairly common in days gone by. Bentham did include a shadowy character that he admitted was inspired by Peter Brockmeister but . . .' He thought for a moment. ‘Could Brockmeister still be alive? Could he be killing again?'

Emily turned away. ‘Oh God, I hope not.'

A worm of doubt about the authenticity of the emails meant that Alan Proud had failed to bring the letters to the first meeting. But now he knew for sure that they were genuine. He'd shaken the hand of the man who'd killed all those people. And now he was going to meet him again, he had so many questions to ask.