The Dark Side of the Mirror

  THE DARK SIDE OF THE MIRROR

  Book 7 in The Reverend Bernard Paltoquet Mystery Series

  A Reverend Paltoquet novel

  by

  Pat Herbert

  OTHER NOVELS IN THE

  REVEREND PALTOQUET MYSTERY SERIES:

  The Bockhampton Road Murders

  Haunted Christmas

  The Possession of November Jones

  The Witches of Wandsworth

  So Long at the Fair

  The Man Who Was Death

  Summer, 1956

  “Can you turn that off, Mrs Aitch?”

  Mrs Harper sniffed and flicked her feather duster at the back of the Reverend Paltoquet’s venerable head. He was sitting in his study, trying to read the newspaper, as she cleaned her way around him.

  “Don’t you like this song, vicar?” asked that redoubtable lady, who had been Bernard Paltoquet’s housekeeper for nearly eight years and, in all that time, had never found cause to give him the respect and awe he thought he deserved. “It’s all the rage, you know. It’s in the hit parade. Don’t you like Alma Cogan?”

  “I’ve nothing against her. She is a very personable young lady,” said Bernard, rustling his newspaper. “But I don’t like that song at all. Neither would you if someone had been whistling it at you all morning.”

  It was true. Bernard had performed a christening earlier that day, one of the duties he least enjoyed, as he was always afraid a recalcitrant baby or small child would vomit all over him. Today had been a particularly trying one, as there was not one but two, babies to anoint. The twins looked so sweet and innocent as they sleeping in their mother’s arms, but they woke up when he poured the holy water on their tiny heads, and one of them let out an almighty scream and urinated down his trousers. The babies’ father, far from apologising for his child’s behaviour, just smiled and winked at Bernard and started humming Alma Cogan’s hit song. The mother made an attempt to shut him up, but it was obvious that the man was a law unto himself. It wouldn’t have been so bad, thought Bernard, if the man had been able to whistle in tune.

  Mrs Harper switched off Miss Cogan in full flood and the room was suddenly silent.

  “It’s those dresses she wears, ain’t it, vic?” said Mrs Harper, polishing the top of the vicar’s desk with vigour, causing his unfinished sermon to float down to the floor unobserved. “Can’t ’elp wondering ’ow she gets into ’em.”

  “With great difficulty, I should imagine, Mrs Aitch. You should ask Robbie, he seems to be an authority on the lady.”

  “Fancies ’er, does ’e? Always got a twinkle in ’is eye, that one.”

  “He seems taken with her, certainly. He was reading a magazine article about her only the other day and commented on her dresses himself. There was one particular one which he showed me that seemed to be nothing but feathers. Look, dear Mrs Aitch, do you have to sweep under my feet like that? I’m trying to read my newspaper.”

  “Why don’t you go and sit in the front parlour? I’ve finished polishing in there.” Mrs Harper was exasperated with her employer on two counts: one, he was impeding her housework and, two, he had made her switch off her favourite wireless programme. A little jolly music helped her get her chores done more quickly and made them less boring. She loved cooking, but the rest of the household jobs she would gladly have relinquished to Bernard’s wife, if he had had one.

  “I’d rather stay here, if you don’t mind,” said Bernard petulantly. “The noise from the wireless would be even louder in there.”

  “As you can ’ear, I’ve switched the blessed thing off, as you asked me to.”

  “I’m not a yo-yo, Mrs Aitch. Going from one room to another. I just want to read my paper in peace. I think I’ll go to the Feathers for a lunchtime drink.” So saying, he stood up, folded his newspaper under his arm and prepared to walk out into the sunny street. He often met his old pal, Dr Robbie MacTavish, in their favourite pub at this time of the day, and he was looking forward to having a moan to him about the trials of the morning’s christening service. He was sure his friend would lend a sympathetic ear.

  “Make sure you’re back by one o’clock,” his housekeeper called after him. “Your dinner will be on the table prompt.” Mrs Harper didn’t approve of strong liquor of any kind, but realised she had no power over Bernard on that score. Besides, she couldn’t, in all honesty, say that he was a heavy drinker; she couldn’t say the same of his friend, Robbie, though. She rather suspected the latter led the former astray in the matter of alcoholic beverages, but who was she to point the finger? Besides, the vicar was old enough to look after himself. He wasn’t a silly teenager, even though he often acted like one.

  Bernard Paltoquet had been the vicar of St Stephen’s in the borough of Wandsworth for eight years, and he had known the local GP, Robbie MacTavish, for the same amount of time. He had met him shortly after taking up his incumbency in 1948, and they had been firm friends ever since.

  As Bernard entered the Feathers, the first person he saw was Robbie, sitting at his usual corner table with a freshly poured whisky, pipe in his mouth, and a copy of the Daily Mirror open in front of him. Not a suitable paper for a so-called intelligent man, thought Bernard sniffily, as he made his way over to join him.

  “Hello, old boy,” greeted Robbie, folding up his paper at his friend’s approach. “Let me get you a drink. Usual sherry?”

  “No, actually. Could I have a lemonade shandy, it’s very warm today.” He ran his finger around his dog collar and removed the sweat as he did so.

  Robbie didn’t particularly want to ask the comely barmaid for that particular drink as he didn’t think it was a man’s tipple at all. But at least he could explain it wasn’t for him to save face. Freda Lossways was a new, and altogether, attractive addition to the bar staff of the Feathers, and Robbie had lost no time in introducing himself. The last thing he wanted her to think was that he went around drinking lemonade shandies all over the place.

  Freda was rather enamoured of the handsome doctor, too. She was a married woman, but that didn’t stop her flirting with all the likely looking males who crossed the threshold of her pub. There were one of two likely males so far, but Robbie was the best looking of them. She batted her eyelashes at him as she poured the shandy.

  “It’s not for me, dear,” said Robbie quickly. He could see her giving him an appraising look. He had just bought a whisky, so what he was doing ordering such a sissy drink was a puzzle to her. “It’s for my friend, Bernie, over there.”

  He indicated the vicar who was, rather ostentatiously to his mind, reading The Times.

  Freda smiled as she looked over at Bernard. She liked what she saw at once. “Oh, he looks nice. I see he’s a vicar…”

  “It’s the collar. Gives him away every time. He will insist on wearing it even when off duty. And in this heat, too.”

  “Never mind, he looks a duck to me,” smiled Freda, handing Robbie the vicar’s shandy. “Do you want another drink yourself?”

  “Och, go on then. You’ve twisted my arm.”

  Once more seated with Bernard, he proceeded to extol the charms of the fair Freda. “She’s got her eye on you, you know,” he said with a wink.

  “She has? Why do you think so?” Bernard was flattered, despite himself, because he didn’t really think it appropriate for vicars to consort with barmaids.

  “She said she thought you looked a – what was the word she used? Er – ‘duck’, that was it.”

  “Duck?” Bernard didn’t think this epithet was suitable for him at all. He didn’t have a beak or feathers, did he?

  “Don’t let it worry you, old chap. It’s an affectionate term, take my word for it.”

  “All rig
ht, I will.” Bernard sipped his lemonade shandy thoughtfully.

  “Anyway, what do you think of her? I think she’s a fair piece myself.”

  “Isn’t she supposed to be married? And, anyway, you must be nearly twice her age!”

  Trust Bernard to put a damper on his ardour, thought Robbie crossly. “So what? It’s only a bit of fun. It’s always acceptable to have someone nice to look at while you sup your pint, eh?”

  “Suppose so,” said Bernard grudgingly.

  Both men were bachelors, although Robbie was being well looked after by his comely housekeeper, Lucy Carter. That, of course, didn’t prevent him having a roving eye, and Freda Lossways was the latest female to tick all the boxes for him, despite the fact that she was in her early twenties and he himself just past the forty milestone. Women nearer his own age, such as Lucy, didn’t appeal to him in the same way. Bernard could disapprove all he liked, thought Robbie, but he didn’t seem to face the same temptations as a normal, red-blooded male.

  They had once been rivals for the affections of Dorothy Plunkett, whom they had both met more or less at the same time, although Robbie saw her first. Dorothy, however, fell immediately for the shy, young vicar and ever since their relationship had been a tricky one, to say the least. Robbie had bowed out of the running when he realised that the lovely Dorothy cared more for his friend, but he sometimes wondered if he should have fought harder for her affections. Bernard had been more than just a little backward in coming forward where she was concerned and, for two pins, he could have stolen a march on him at any time. His friend had vacillated in his affections for her, whereas Robbie would have proposed to her on the spot. He might have regretted it later; but he told himself he would never know now.

  Dorothy Plunkett was a professional medium, and was highly regarded in occult circles. Both men had also had psychic experiences in the past, and firmly believed in her gifts. She was now living with her aged father in Exeter, expecting him to die any day but the man had defied medical science by creaking on for many years and keeping her from seeing her two friends very often. They corresponded regularly, however, so they were up to date with her news. They both felt a pang of guilt when they vaguely wished that the crotchety old man would shuffle off his mortal coil so that they could once again be reunited with her in the flesh.

  “I must tell you about this morning, Robbie,” said Bernard, “if you can get your mind off barmaids for a moment…”

  “Sorry, old boy. You’ve got something to get off your chest?”

  “It was this man. The father of the twins I had to christen today…”

  “What about him? I sense a mystery.” Robbie’s pale blue eyes twinkled in expectation.

  “No, no. No mystery. He was just – well, objectionable is the only word I can think of to describe him.”

  “In what way objectionable?”

  “He – he kept whistling – er, humming rather. That Alma Cogan song, ‘Twenty Tiny Fingers’.”

  Robbie laughed. “Sounds appropriate, considering he was the father of twins.”

  “Oh, ha, very amusing. Can you imagine it, though? I was trying to perform the service and his humming was so loud, it kept putting me off.”

  “Well, didn’t you ask him politely to shut up?”

  “I did hint at it, and his wife tried to quieten him, but he took no notice. Objectionable man.”

  “I can see that it must have been a bit annoying for you, Bernie, but I’m not sure he deserves to be called objectionable on that score alone…”

  “No, well, you weren’t there.” Bernard took another swig of his shandy and looked sulky.

  “Sorry not to sympathise, but I can’t really see why you’re so upset about him.”

  Bernard sighed. “Nor can I when it comes down to it. But there was something not quite right about him altogether. Couldn’t tell you why I thought that, though…”

  “There!” exclaimed Robbie. “There is a mystery after all. Perhaps he’s a man with a secret past. A double axe murderer, no doubt.”

  “You’re very skittish today, Robbie,” said Bernard crossly. “I don’t say there’s anything bad about the man, but he had a way of looking at me and winking that completely threw me.”

  “Oh well, old boy. You won’t have to meet him again, so why worry?”

  “I hope you’re right, Robbie. I hope you’re right. He’s one parishioner I hope doesn’t attend my services.”

  As it turned out Robbie was wrong. It was two days later when Mrs Harper announced that a Mr Fentiman had called to see Bernard. He was in his favourite chair in his favourite room, the study, enjoying a quiet pipe and a Dick Francis novel. The interruption, therefore, wasn’t altogether welcomed.

  Just who was this Fentiman, he wondered. Always bad at remembering names, he had to wrack his brains to recall where he had heard this one before.

  Mrs Harper tutted impatiently and enlightened him. “Says you christened ’is twins the other day,” she said. “Shall I show ’im up ’ere or do you want ’im in the front parlour?”

  Bernard didn’t want Mr Fentiman anywhere in the vicarage, if truth be told, but he certainly didn’t want him in his study. What could the man want? The christening had been performed perfectly satisfactorily, apart from a good pair of twill trousers being ruined by baby pee.

  “Oh dear. I don’t want him up here,” he said, standing up. “– Er, put him in the front parlour, Mrs Aitch. Say I’ll be down in a minute.”

  “Right you are. Shall I offer ’im tea or something? Must say I don’t like the look of ’im much.” You and me both, thought Bernard. “No, no tea, Mrs Aitch. Whatever you do don’t offer him any refreshments. I don’t want him hanging around too long.”

  Mrs Harper couldn’t have agreed more. The sooner he was off the premises, the better. But she, like Bernard, couldn’t exactly say why she didn’t like the man. Something about the way he kept sniggering at her, she supposed.

  Bernard supposed he’d better get it over with, but not before he had wasted five minutes gazing at himself in the bathroom mirror and adjusting his dog collar. He continued to wonder what the man wanted, as he didn’t strike him as the type to attend church on a regular basis or enjoy fraternising with vicars. Thinking these thoughts, he reluctantly made his way down stairs to greet his unwelcome visitor. As they shook hands, Bernard was very much afraid that if he hummed that bloody song at him again, he’d be forced to punch him on the nose.

  “Er, sorry to keep you waiting, Mr – er, Fentiman.”

  “No bother, vicar,” said Carl Fentiman. Bernard recoiled at the clamminess of his hand, resisting the urge to wipe his palm on the seat of his trousers.

  “Please, take a seat,” said Bernard, giving him a slightly forced smile. “What can I do for you? Twins all right, are they?” He couldn’t have cared less about the twins, at least not the one who had ruined a perfectly good pair of trousers. But his was his pastoral duty to care for his parishioners, something he had to tell himself twenty times a day. Mrs Harper had sniffed when she saw the discarded soiled trousers on Bernard’s bedroom floor. Inspecting the damage with her gimlet eyes, she told him in no uncertain terms that trousers didn’t grow on trees. But Bernard consoled himself with the knowledge that if anyone could counteract urine damage in twill cloth, Mrs Harper was that person.

  “They’re fine, vicar,” smiled Carl snidely. “Just fine. Pair of little beauties, aren’t they?”

  “Er, yes, indeed. Little beauties.” Bernard couldn’t keep a note of sarcasm out of his tone, and didn’t much care whether Fentiman noticed it or not. Mrs Harper’s wrath over the trousers wasn’t worth all the ‘little beauties’ in the world to him.

  “Well, vicar, it’s like this.” Carl could see that the vicar wasn’t about to ask him to sit down, so he began at once. “You see, I’m a twin and so was my father before me…”

  “Right, I see. Twins obviously run in your family then…” Positively stampede, thought Bernard with a sm
irk.

  “Yes. Well, my father – God rest his soul – is buried in the prison here.”

  “Buried in the prison?” Bernard hadn’t expected that. This conversation had taken a very strange turn all of a sudden. Buried in the prison: that could only mean one thing. The man must have been hanged for some heinous crime – murder or treason. On balance, Bernard plumped for the former. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of people who had suffered the ultimate penalty for treason. There was Guy Fawkes, of course, and probably plenty more back in the days when that sort of crime was rife. But this was the nineteen fifties, and murderers were ten a penny, unfortunately.

  “Yes, at least that’s where he was last time I looked.” The man positively grimaced at him.

  “So you visit his grave regularly then?” Bernard was surprised that Carl Fentiman seemed to be such a dutiful son. It didn’t fit with his personality at all.

  “Well, sometimes. Not as often as I would like or as I ought. My mother used to go all the time – but she died not long after he did.”

  “Can I ask the reason why your father was buried in the prison?” Bernard was intrigued, despite himself. He sensed an even deeper mystery than Robbie had envisaged. Life was a bit dull of late and a juicy murder would be just the ticket to spice it up a bit.

  “He was hanged,” came the monosyllabic reply.

  Bernard would have liked a bit more elaboration, but didn’t want to appear too interested at this stage. “I see,” he said. There was a pause, then the man continued.

  “For a murder he didn’t commit.”

  “Ah. I see,” said Bernard. The reason for the man’s visit was becoming clear at last. “So you want me to help in some way to clear his name?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Carl. “But, really, it’s not that simple …”

  “Do you want to explain?”