Captain Forwood, Drum could see right away, was not of the same mind. The poor man had been jilted, not exactly at the altar, but soon afterwards. What more was there to say? This Meriel Forwood was clearly no better than she should be, and was in for a rude awakening, no doubt, when Penrose tired of her. He could see her body being fished out of some river in the not too distant future, a fallen woman. The story was a sad, but common one.

  Drum sat down slowly opposite the young officer. He felt sorry for him. What kind of a woman would up and leave a man she had just married?

  “I don’t honestly know how I can help you,” he said, hitching up his trousers slightly and brushing off some cigar ash from them. He stubbed out the remains of his cigar and proceeded to light another one. “Smoke?” he asked, offering the small case, filled with his favourite brand, long and elegant, to the captain.

  Matthew accepted and took one gratefully. Drum watched him as he seemed to calm down slightly under the effect of the nicotine. What would one do without cigars or cigarettes, he wondered. He couldn’t begin to imagine a world without a pack of cigars in his back pocket, or an ounce of Golden Virginia in his desk drawer. The cigar case had been a birthday present from his wife, and he used it mainly to impress people. People like Captain Matthew Forwood.

  “She wouldn’t – she wouldn’t just go off with someone,” said Matthew after a moment.

  “The landlady of the boarding house said she was seen in the company of a man soon after you’d left, sir. She said that it wasn’t long after that that he left himself, presumably your wife along with him.” He consulted his notebook. “This Mrs Conway woman – the one that runs the place – told me he paid his bill the next day and left. She said your wife wasn’t with him.” He continued to study his notes.

  “There you are then!” cried Matthew, jumping up. “Doesn’t that prove that she didn’t go with him?”

  “Not really, sir. I mean, she wouldn’t have wanted to make it obvious she was leaving with him, would she?”

  “She wouldn’t leave with him in the first place! Besides, all her clothes are still at the guest house. How do you explain that?”

  “Again, sir, to avoid suspicion. If she had left soon after him, there would have been raised eyebrows. Perhaps she will get in touch at some point and ask for her clothes to be sent on to her. Then you will be able to find her. Look on the bright side, sir.”

  “But it’s been nearly a fortnight! She would need a change of clothes by now!”

  Inspector Drum puffed slowly on his cigar, mulling this over. “We’ve thought about that, sir,” he said at last. “She may have been bought some new clothes by this Mr Penrose, just to avoid giving her address away. Look, sir, you must face up to it. Perhaps she doesn’t want to be found.”

  “So you’re not going to do anything, in other words?”

  The inspector raised his hands in a hopeless gesture. “There’s really nothing we can do, sir. I’m sorry. Look at it from our point of view.”

  Captain Forwood stepped out of the police station into the Blackpool sunshine. When would this spell of fine weather break, he wondered. He wanted it to pour with rain to match the dark mood in which he had slumped since first discovering that his wife was no longer where he had left her. His mood, if anything, was even darker now following his abortive conversation with the inspector. What a scruffy man, he thought. Not one to inspire confidence. He didn’t seem to want to help at all. ‘Look at it from their point of view’, indeed! Why not try looking at it from his own?

  Was there any truth in what the man had said? Matthew turned towards the promenade, hands in pockets, deep in thought. Had Meriel really gone off with this man, Penrose? She had always been a bit flighty, he had to admit. But she was so young and pretty, it was natural for her to enjoy being admired by the male sex in general. He had never minded that. In fact, her beauty made him proud to think he had gained a prize that most men coveted for themselves.

  But, for all her flightiness, he would never have believed she would leave him in the lurch like that. Something must have happened to her. Somebody must know something. That Ivy Conway, for instance. Was she hiding something? Was there something she wasn’t telling him? He would find out, if it took him the rest of his life.

  As he made this vow, a dark cloud appeared in the sky just above his head. The weather, like his heart, was about to break.

  August 1957: Blackpool

  Bernard was an unhappy man now that Robbie was staying with Nigel and Oliver at the Imperial. What a daft excuse to go and stay somewhere else – some woman in his bed! That, thought Bernard, knowing his friend only too well, should have been an inducement for him to stay, book another week, in fact. But there was no denying that Robbie had seemed very upset about the incident. And just because Oliver Johnson had experienced some sort of hallucination about a woman bleeding all over the carpet, he had gone to stay at the Imperial as well. So poor Bernard had been left to ‘slum it’ at the Sunnyside Guest House.

  It was two days after Robbie had gone, and Bernard was almost getting used to breakfasting alone. He was sitting in the Sunnyside dining area, a plateful of unhealthy fried food in front of him, when he noticed a rather handsome old gentleman with a military bearing seated in the far corner. He was the only other occupant of the room. His hair was white and his droopy moustache was spread over an equally droopy mouth. Bernard, without his best friend and confidante, felt lonely and unwanted, to the point where it was affecting his appetite; a rarity for Bernard.

  Putting down his knife and fork he stared at the old gentleman for several minutes, his eggs and bacon starting to congeal. The sun was pouring in through the window, giving the man a sort of halo. Bernard wondered what his story was. He looked forlorn and lonely, in tune with the way he felt himself. Picking up his plate and cutlery he stood up and moved slowly towards his table.

  Coughing politely, he waited for the old man to acknowledge his presence. This he did slowly, giving him a quizzical frown as he shielded his eyes from the sun’s penetrating rays. Bernard appeared as a black blob to him. Bernard, he looked even sadder close up.

  “I wondered if you could do with some company,” said Bernard.

  The man shrugged. “Please yourself,” he said, not unkindly. He didn’t seem particularly interested in Bernard, but didn’t look unfriendly either. Just resigned.

  Bernard put his heaped up plate down and sat in the chair opposite. “As I’m on my own, and as you seem to be too, I thought we might as well introduce ourselves,” he said. “My name’s Bernard Paltoquet.”

  “Really? You have my sympathy,” the man replied tersely. Bernard was slightly taken aback until he noticed the twinkle in the aged blue eye.

  “Yes, it is a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it? Most of my parishioners call me Bernard or Bernie.”

  “Your parishioners? Oh, yes, the dog collar. I nearly missed it.” Was the man being sarcastic, wondered the vicar of St Stephen’s. He wasn’t in the mood to be made fun of. Not today.

  As if sensing Bernard’s mood, the old man gave him the ghost of a smile. “My name’s Matthew Forwood. Colonel Forwood,” he said, extending a trembling hand for Bernard to shake.

  “How do you do, sir?”

  “What’s all that muck on your plate?” Forwood watched in fascination as Bernard began to work his way into the piles of mushrooms, baked beans and sausages in front of him. The colonel, in contrast, had a rather small kipper and a slice of buttered bread as his sole morning sustenance.

  Bernard chewed for a few minutes, not particularly enjoying the food which was rather indifferently cooked. “I like to eat a hearty breakfast,” he explained, swallowing a mouthful.

  “Like the condemned prisoner, eh?”

  Bernard wasn’t at all sure he liked the colonel’s dry sense of humour, but smiled politely nonetheless. He believed the old should be indulged or, more accurately, patronised. “I – I enjoy my food,” he said quietly, losing what was left of his appetite. Why wasn’t Robbie here to defend him? He began to wish he hadn’t introduced himself to this crotchety old man, after all.

  He made another effort, after taking another forkful of baked beans. They were stone cold now. “Have you been here long?”

  “Here? In Blackpool, do you mean?”

  “Well, yes. In Blackpool. In this guest house, more specifically.”

  “I come here every year. Have been doing so since 1919.”

  “My goodness, you must really like it.”

  “Not much.”

  “Oh.”

  Bernard finished off his food and pushed the plate away. What a crabby old man, he thought. He’d only asked a civil question, after all.

  “Then, sir, may I ask why you come here year after year if you don’t like it?”

  “Because I want to find out what happened to my wife.”

  “Your wife?” Bernard was all ears now. He sensed a mystery.

  “Yes. A wife is someone whom you marry. You, of all people, should know that.”

  Bernard was getting really annoyed now. Didn’t he have any respect for the cloth? “What happened to her?” he asked, bottling up his annoyance as best he could.

  “That, my dear vicar, is something I don’t know. The last time I saw her was in the late summer of 1919. She was standing in the reception of this very building, waving me goodbye. The wallpaper’s still the same.”

  “I – I see.” What had the wallpaper got to do with it, he wondered.

  “You see, we had just got married, but I had to go home because of a family crisis. She decided to stay on. When I came back for her, she’d gone – just disappeared. The police thought she’d run off with a man who was staying here at the time. They couldn’t trace him because he had given a false address. They didn’t try any further.”

  Bernard was shocked and saddened by the man’s story. “That is very unfortunate. Your wife running off like that. And you said you had only just got married?”

  “Yes. But she would never have left me of her own accord. She must have been abducted – or worse. We were deeply in love. That man did away with her, I know it. But I need to find out the truth so I can prove it. That’s why I come back here year after year – one of the reasons, anyway.”

  “But surely there’s no way you can find out what happened to her after all this time?”

  “I know she was murdered. I’ve stayed in the very room we shared in 1919. She’s still there.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Her spirit – her ghost, what you will. When I stay in room twelve, there she is. In the bed beside me. That’s the other reason I come here every year – just to be with her again.”

  Something clicked in Bernard’s brain. Room twelve. Hadn’t that been Robbie’s room?

  “Are you staying in that room now?” he asked.

  “Yes. I arrived late last night. Old Mrs Conway always saves it for me. She doesn’t usually open it up any other time.” He looked at Bernard before he spoke again. “You think I’m mad, don’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t. My friend stayed in room twelve up to a few nights ago. He couldn’t stand it. He told me a woman was in bed beside him and it frightened the life out of him.”

  “Really? I’m surprised Ivy let it out to your friend. Although I suppose she had no choice. What with it being so busy this time of the year.” He paused. “Did your friend really say there was a woman in the bed with him?”

  “Yes,” said Bernard, removing his pipe from his top pocket and fishing in his trousers pocket for his matches. “But I thought it was just a nightmare. I thought he was making a fuss about nothing.”

  “Well, young man, he wasn’t. That was my wife. I was scared myself, at first. Now I come back just to feel her next to me again. It’s all I have of her.”

  “Does – does she speak to you?”

  “No. I keep hoping that one day she will. Her spirit isn’t at peace and I know she wants to tell me what really happened to her.”

  “Here we go again,” said Bernard to himself, and smiled.

  Saturday, 23rd August

  The Vicarage

  Dear Vicar

  I don’t know about you, but this heat wave is playing havock with my corns. Lucy has given me this cream to rub on them but they still hurt whenever I put on my outdoor shoes. Can you ask your pal if he can suggest something? Still, mustnt grumble I suppose what with them little kiddies in Africa or so you keep telling us in church of a Sunday.

  I hope your still enjoying your holiday and getting a tan. As you asked when you left I am reporting with news of the cat. I told you it would come to no harm but you kept on and on so I write all the time to make sure you dont worry too much. Tiddles is his usual naughty self – all right I know his name isn’t Tiddles but I cant pronounce let alone spell the stupid name you gave him. Besides he answers to Tiddles quite happily specially when his food is ready.

  He caught a blue tit the other day. Nice birds blue tits but not this one after Tiddles had a go at it. I took it to the vet but he couldnt do nothing for it – poor wee thing. I buried it in the garden but no sooner was it buried than Tiddles had it up again. You better get home soon otherwise I shall take your precious cat and get its knackers taken off. The vet offered me a deal on the bird and the cat at the same time. He said if the cat was done then he wouldnt go chasing the birds so much. But what about the mice I asked him. He couldn’t answer for the mice so your cat has still got its knackers for the time being.

  Lucy sends her regards to the doc as usual – please pass them on. She hasnt stopped crying since he left but dont tell him that. Hes got a big enough head all ready.

  Yours truly

  Nancy Harper

  PS: The vacuum cleaner dont suck up nothing now. Got any ideas?

  August 1920: Blackpool

  Elmer Smallpurse felt he was winning over the Elphinstones more and more as each day passed. Flashing his money about had helped considerably, and his gallantry towards their young daughter had been duly noted and grudgingly approved by both parents. They still weren’t happy that such a fat, vulgar man was making an obvious play for her, but at least he was rich. Elmer knew exactly the sort of people the Elphinstones were: the middle class gone to seed. They were poor, but that didn’t stop them looking down their arrogant straight noses at the nouveau riche like himself. They were even quite content to accept his money when it was doled out to them. They were the worst kind of hypocrites. Elmer didn’t care what they thought of him: he had invested heavily into his dalliance with Mary, and he now felt it was time to reap his reward.

  “So, Johnny, do you think she likes me?”

  Johnny Tapperstall, who had returned to Elmer’s room at the guest house with several purchases, including tobacco and whisky, gave him a wink, but did not reply directly to his question. He set out the items on the bed and gave Elmer the bill. “Comes to three and eightpence all together,” he said.

  Since Elmer had been staying at the Sunnyside, Johnny was getting richer by the day, running errands, putting on bets for him, and generally looking after him. Johnny genuinely liked the rich American, and it wasn’t just because he was a profitable source of income. But he felt he was being a fool over Mary Elphinstone.

  Elmer opened the pack of tobacco and started to transfer it to his leather pouch. He looked at the lad and smiled. “You heard me, young feller,” he prompted. “She does like me, doesn’t she?”

  “She’d be a fool not to,” said Johnny, ducking the question slightly and feeling annoyed with himself for doing so. If he was any sort of a friend to Elmer, he would tell him what he really thought. It would hurt him, of course, but it would be fairer in the long run.

  “I mean, I bought her that powder compact she had her eye on, didn’t I? And not the silver one either. It was all gold, fourteen carats. She gave me a kiss for that.”

  Johnny felt cross with him and sad for him at the same time. Buying favours was all very well, but young women like Mary would never want a man like the unprepossessing Elmer, no matter how rich he was. But he was too tender hearted to tell him so. Besides, what did he really know about women? He was barely out of short trousers. There were women, he knew who would sell themselves for far less than what Elmer had to offer. Maybe the innocent-seeming Mary was one of them.

  He tried another tack. “Beats me what you find to talk to her about,” he said. “You being a well-travelled, experienced man, and everything. She’s just a bit of a girl. Knows nothing and is a bit silly with it.”

  Elmer’s hackles rose at once. “Don’t talk about her like that,” he snapped. “She’s a peach.”

  “She’s a peach all right,” agreed Johnny, and just right for the plucking, he said to himself. Some young and handsome boy her own age would come along and sweep her off her dainty little feet before she was very much older.

  “Do you think her father will let me take her out tonight on her own?” Elmer put his tobacco pouch into his waistcoat pocket. There was a thoughtful expression on his rubbery face as he drew on his pipe.

  “I don’t see why not,” said Johnny. Again, he didn’t feel quite able to give a straight answer. Aubrey Elphinstone guarded his daughter as if she were the crown jewels and the Koh-i-Noor diamond all rolled into one. No man, as far as Johnny could tell, would ever get near enough to her if her jealous parent had his way. But Elmer had proved himself reliable and trustworthy up to a point, and Mary would no doubt enjoy an outing without her mother and father tagging along. It would make her feel grown up, which she nearly was. Old enough to get married, anyway. Elphinstone couldn’t really disapprove as long as he brought her back at a reasonable hour. And Elmer would be a fool not to do that.

  “I guess I’m not ideal husband material, am I?” said Elmer suddenly. “Leastways not for Mary.” His whole demeanour seemed somehow suddenly slumped and diminished.

 

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