The Old Alhambra

This tale is complete in Six Chapters posted at approximately weekly intervals

This, the sixth and last chapter, is entitled

~ As Through a Glass Darkly ~

Readers should be aware that this is primarily a Ghost Story.

The TV/TG element is crucial to the plot but occupies a comparatively minor part of the text.

Those wishing to absorb a little of the ambience prior to reading should visit http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pW4ThXetHkI&NR=1 and hear Helen Shapiro sing the last verse and refrain of the song that runs like a thread throughout the tale.

I'm a young girl, and have just come over,
Over from the country where they do things big,
And amongst the boys I've got a lover,
And since I've got a lover, why I don't care a fig.

The boy I love is up in the gallery,
The boy I love is looking down at me,
There he is, can't you see, a-waving of his handkerchief,
As merry as a robin that sings on a tree.

The boy that I love, they call him a cobbler,
But he's not a cobbler, allow me to state.
For Johnny is a tradesman and he works in the Boro'
Where they sole and heel them, whilst you wait.

Refrain

If I were a Duchess and had a lot of money,
I'd give it to the boy that's going to marry me.
But I haven't got a penny, so we'll live on love and kisses,
And be just as happy as the birds on the tree.

Refrain

'The Boy I Love' was composed by George Ware in 1885 and made popular by Marie Lloyd.

An interesting historical side note is that it was also apparently sung by Belle Elmore, the wife of Dr. Crippen.

Chapter Six ~ As Through a Glass Darkly ~

"Got the DNA results back did you Sir?"

D.I. Harry Savage nodded. "It's as we thought. I wish I had never sent it. Never found the bloody thing."

His sergeant turned this information over in his mind. "Not that it matters I suppose Sir. I mean its hardly our concern is it?"

"It's a loose end," said his superior. "Don't like loose ends. Never have."

He took a tentative bite from his sandwich. It was surprisingly good. The beef rare and tender. Too rare for his sergeant who liked his beef ruined. Still the beer would find favour with him. That too was surprisingly good.

He took a sip, savouring it. A week since his first visit to The Quiet Woman. Then it had been in the evening. On the Wednesday when the body had been discovered by the man Scrivener. He had been worried about the non-return of his keys, complaining bitterly that Dearden had failed to drop them back into his office as promised. More concerned about the place being open to vandals than that it housed a dead body.

Christ! It would have to be a pretty dedicated vandal to find anything worth the trashing there.

And now he was back. At lunchtime. Loose ends.

At least it provided the clientá¨le with some interest. All four of them. Grouped around a table behind him, ostensibly playing dominoes but the click click of the pieces always silenced when he or his sergeant spoke, lest a word of their conversation be missed.

And the barman hovering, polishing and re-polishing the same glass. He'd wear the bloody towel out if he kept at it much longer. The sooner the better too as a new one, or even a clean one, would significantly lessen the risk of salmonella poisoning.

He could probably afford a new one with all the increased trade that the death had brought him. Just for a few days until all the journalists and sensation seeking locals had found something else to engage their morbid curiosity.

"All wrapped up then is it Sir?" The barman unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

"Just some loose ends."

"I'll expect yer'll be arresting someone soon then Sir?"

The D.I. smiled. "I'm forever arresting someone. It's my job. It's what I do best."

His sergeant grinned. "E's very good at it too, 'e is. Always arrestin' someone. 'Ardly a day goes by wivart .... "

The barman looked hurt. "I was only arskin' .... bein' sociable like."

"Have you anyone particular in mind?"

"No of course not. 'Ow could I? I mean there are rumours o' course. Well there always is abart that place. The Old Alhambra. Not that I believe them .... take them seriously o' course .... It's just that ...."

"Just that?"

"Well 'e was 'ere wasn't 'e. On that first day and in the evening, later when .... afterwards when 'e .... I'd have thought yer'd 'ave been wantin' to interview me .... me being a witness .... sort of."

There was the hint of defiant accusation in the barman's look.

"I could've told yer. Well it were obvious something was goin' on. Weren't quite kosher. I mean 'e were half dead when 'e came in that second time. If yer arsks me someone 'ad 'ad a go at 'im then ...."

The barman, apparently aggrieved at not having been denied the opportunity of an official interview, became carried away by the importance of the revelations he had to offer.

".... Mind you it ain't surprising. 'E must 'ave been one of those .... Yer know them ...." The barman gestured vaguely. "Yer could see plain as a pikestaff .... all over 'is face it were. Not that he hadn't tried to scrub it off .... but there were traces all over. All round 'is eyes and on 'is lashes. Mascara and muck like that. And on 'is lips and on what yer could see of 'is face that weren't rubbed raw."

The barman shrugged his shoulders, grimaced, gave the D.I. and his sergeant a we're-all-men-of-the-world look.

"I mean I've nothing against them myself. Live an' let live I always say .... an' who are we to judge .... still .... but .... well it ain't right is it? Nobody can tell me it's natural. And round 'ere it's just arskin' for it. I mean not everyone is so tolerant. And there's some rough types around what don't think nothing of expressing themselves with their fists or whatever else comes in 'andy .... "

The D.I. nodded his agreement with the barman's assessment of his neighbours' habits and inclinations.

"Was the pub empty?" He asked. "No trouble in here when he came in? No intolerant locals?"

"The first time it were empty. Apart from me o' course. And 'e weren't all tarted up then neither. All very smart and businesslike 'e were."

"And the second time? In the evening, when he was 'all tarted up' as you put it?"

"It were quiet. Early doors. Just the four boys behind you. The regulars."

The regulars stretched the definition of boys to breaking point. Three of them would never see sixty again. The fourth was at least a couple of decades older than they. D.I. Savage was reminded of Lonesome George, the Galapagos tortoise, carapaced in a stiff dark blue reefer jacket rather than a shell. He wore dark glasses and a white stick was wedged beside his chair. Sensing themselves observed, the four men plied their dominoes with renewed vigour. Lonesome George's arthritic fingers flickering over their surfaces, identifying them with an ease that betokened long practice.

"No one else?"

"No one else."

"Only ...." It was the sergeant's turn to drop a pebble in the pool. "Only we found some notes 'e'd left. Written that weekend. He must have been still half concussed. 'Is mind wandering wiv all sorts of odd imaginin's. But one thing 'e was clear on. One thing that 'e came back to time an' time again, was that there was an old woman here."

The dominoes were stilled. Deathly silence suddenly. No sound but a low wheezing whistle indicating that Lonesome George was still breathing.

"Talked to 'er 'e did. At some length apparently."

No one moved. A domino was frozen in time two inches above the table.

"Twice. Once on each visit."

From the thin slit that served Lonesome George as a mouth came a soft wavering sigh. The preliminary to words that formed half way through the same exhalation of breath. Words that creaked out into existence; that would perhaps not have been heard at all had not the room been so silent, so attentive. As if waiting for them.

"It was 'er. I told yer. She were 'ere. That night. I could smell 'er. Smell that perfume .... I ...."

A long deep breath and then head and neck seemed to withdraw back to the reefer jacket and the hands holding the dominoes dropped them gently onto the table.

"No one else that I remember." The barman belatedly corrected himself. "I mean people come and go 'ere all the time. I can't remember everyone. Stands to reason I can't. You can't expect me to remember everyone. People is always nippin' in and out and ...."

The refrain was taken up by one of the regulars. A thin weasel of a man in a greasy cap. "'S'right. People is always droppin' in. It's a pub ain't it? Yer can't expect to remember everyone."

The two silent regulars nodded their support for this observation, and, emboldened, the weasel embarked on further explanations.

"Any ways you can't believe a word old Pugh says. You only 'ave to look at 'im to see that. Merchant sailor 'e were. Boy seaman e' were, Least 'e were until 'is boat stopped a torpedo in the Med on the Malta run. Bloody great tanker. Went up like a Roman candle. All bloody sea alight with burnin' oil and such. They found five of them. It were a miracle like because no one weren't supposed to stop to pick survivors up. Bleedin' sittin' duck they'd 'ave bin. Only a lifeboat from another sinkin' picked 'em up an'...."

The barman, perhaps from experience of his customer's narratory expansiveness, cut in.

"'E were blind and near dead. And near crazed by the time they found them. Lives in 'is own world 'e does. 'Earin' things. Not what you lot would call a reliable witness."

The tortoise neck eased out from its refuge in the reefer jacket. The head swivelled towards D.I. Savage. A wheeze as a prelude to speech and then:

"I knows what I hears, what I smells. I ain't dead yet. And I smelled 'er perfume that night."

A rattling indrawal of breath, another wheeze and :

"And I told 'em. Just as I smelled it the night those kids died. The same perfume. She was 'ere."

The D.I smiled at the old man.

"Thanks," he said.

And to the barman, "It doesn't matter. I was just curious. Loose ends."

He gestured with his pint. "We'll have the refills. Off duty now. Just a few things to tidy up, a spot of admin, and then we'll leave you in peace."

The beer drawn, he turned to follow the sergeant who was carrying the two pints to a table, turned back again.

"One other thing," he said, "before I forget. Did you happen to see a locket. Did Dearden have a locket when he came here that evening?"

"Yes. I remember. It was on the table in front of him, when I went to tell 'im about the taxi. Then 'e put it in 'is pocket as 'e left."

"You are sure. He put it in his pocket as he left. He took it with him?"

"Ere!" Belligerence was in the barman's voice. "Yer not implying that it were nicked are you? Because if you are I can ...."

The D.I stopped the flow with an upheld hand. "Not for a minute. The last thing on my mind. It was just that his notes are full of it. He seems to have been obsessed with it ...."

He shrugged. Spoke more to himself than to satisfy the barman's curiosity. "And yet we can't find it. It seems to have vanished into thin air."

The barman was avid for sensation. "Is it a clue? Did the murderer take it? Did 'e ....?

"What murderer would that be?" The D.I was all gentle reasonableness.

"Why 'im that did in that fellow Dearden. Knifed 'im by all accounts .... So they say. 'Im that ...."

Savage shook his head in weary reproof. "You shouldn't listen to gossip. Dearden wasn't murdered. Wasn't stabbed, or even strangled, shot or drowned. He died of a massive coronary. Death by natural causes."

His sergeant was waiting for him. Slid his glass towards him. "You've ruined his day," he said.

They sipped their beers in companionable silence.

"It's odd though isn't it. Too many coincidences. I mean I never saw the dressing room were 'e died, bein' away on that course, but from what you said .... well it were a bit odd weren't it."

Savage nodded. "He'd fallen back onto the dressing table, into the mirror, smashing it and one of its supports. He'd been rifling through the wardrobe and was still clutching a long yellow dress, period costume, that he must have found there. There was greasepaint daubed on his face and a long wig perched askew on his head.

"Ties in with what the barman says. 'E must have liked that sort o' thing. Takes all sorts."

"That's one of the things that's odd. If he did like to venture down into the realms of femininity, and there's nothing in his flat to indicate any such tendency, then you'd think he'd have applied the make up better. In fact anyone would have done it better with the minimum of care. He'd just daubed it with no attempt to .... well make the best of it. As if the act of applying make-up was enough in itself. A statement."

The sergeant shrugged. "All a bit beyond me Sir. I was thinking more of the coincidence. Two Deardens. That and finding the knife. I suppose he was right about that .... about being his grandson?"

"From the notes he made it is pretty clear he'd worked out most of it. Probably had the suspicion, bordering on certainty, that Beatrice and his grandfather were one and the same person. If he'd had time to read all the press cuttings, and not just the ones that Beatrice had had selected as being particularly irritating, he'd have seen it was a fairly open secret."

"Rum lot, these theatricals," opined the sergeant philosophically. "Anything goes with them. Artistic bleedin' temperament."

"He, or she, must have had a hard time of it nonetheless. Attitudes were a lot different seventy years ago and living as a woman, as Beatrice did, couldn't have been easy. The theatre can be tolerant, but it can also be more than usually bitchy, as evidenced by some of those articles. And there would have been those who remembered him from way back, before he .... changed."

"'E must have been good at it too .... convincin' enough to escape detection in the street an' face accusations of cowardice. People weren't over tolerant then of men who weren't in uniform."

"In retrospect I suppose it was a tragedy waiting to happen. Effectively separated from his wife and child. Apparently drinking more than was good for him or his act. So much so that, judging by the reviews, he was on the skids whilst his understudy's career was on the up and up."

"The same understudy that 'e was 'avin' an 'igh old time with between the sheets, just to keep the misery at bay ...."

"Cynicism doesn't become you D.S. Quinn. He had kept her letters and she at least seemed to have been in love with him. And of course in the later ones she says she is carrying his child. As far as we can judge he seems to have been genuinely fond of her."

"As 'e also seems to have been of 'is wife and son, judgin' by 'er letters. Which 'e also kept."

Savage sighed. Took a deep swig of his drink.

"It must have been an unholy mess."

"And then 'is grandson comes along. 'As an 'eart attack. Falls onto a table. Breaks a bleedin' mirror ...."

".... and dislodges the knife which had got wedged there which in turn falls, not discretely under the table, as you'd expect any self respecting murder weapon to do, but ...."

".... onto the skirts of a bright yellow dress, just so we can't miss seeing it ...."

".... which opens up a seventy year old bleedin' can o' worms."

"Not that it really matters. Not now. The murderer is almost certainly dead by now." Savage shrugged. "Nothing to be gained. No wrongs to be righted. No one saved from durance vile. I don't know why we bother. It's just that ...."

".... You don't like loose ends," his sergeant finished for him.

D.I. Savage nodded, sipped his drink reflectively. "I can't help wondering if Dearden figured it out before he died. He was obviously obsessed by it."

It was the sergeant's turn to shrug. "Perhaps. 'E 'ad all the elements. Apart from the knife o' course. And it wasn't difficult when you thought about it. If it hadn't been for the war, an' it being the night of 15th October 1941, wiv masses of other bodies cluttering the place up, an' it happening in 'er dressing room, the police would 'ave sussed it at the time."

"Some things we can only guess at now though. She, Beatrice, had probably been drinking. Perhaps Lucy Sheldon had been too. Quite likely they had been drinking together. Probably quite an amicable end-of-performance-get-together to start with."

'An then it all went sour. Must 'ave done. Much to go sour about. Lucy resenting Beatrice as someone who was holding 'er back, taking the star billing whilst she, the one with the voice of an angel, was little more than the understudy. An understudy whose theme song had effectively been stolen. Beatrice, with 'er professional career heading nowhere but down, jealous of the lovely young girl who was starting to win rave reviews at her expense. With a true voice, whilst Beatrice could really only sing in 'er rá´le of male impersonator an' even then perhaps not as convincingly as before. She'd stolen a song that she probably couldn't do justice to. That too must have rankled."

D.I. Savage nodded. "And the jealousy might even have extended to the fact that Lucy was genetically female. Beatrice had achieved marvels in overcoming the odds to become the star she was, but the odds were increasingly being stacked against her. And perhaps when you want desperately to be something it is difficult to see others be it effortlessly. Particularly if they taunt you with it. "

"An' Beatrice was caught between wife and mistress. Unable to decide between 'em perhaps. Feelings of guilt can be corrosive, and can easily be transformed into feelings of resentment."

"'How happy could I be with either, were t'other dear charmer away'," smiled the D.I., "but of course Beatrice wasn't a philanderer. The poor sod was cursed with a conscience."

"An' doubtless to placate Lucy, 'e'd said 'e'd leave his wife for 'er. P'rhaps even meant it at times. An' if addition she were pregnant .... Well it adds an element of urgency to the situation."

"Oh I think she was pregnant all right. She said so and there is no suggestion that Beatrice disputed it."

"Even so, it's still guesswork."

"Not quite, more a weighing of probabilities. There was a rumour that Beatrice was pregnant. But we know that couldn't be. So was the rumour quite baseless or was there just an element of truth in it?"

"There can't just be an element of truth in being pregnant. Either one is or....."

".... Or someone else is. And where did the rumour originate? Beatrice herself was hardly likely to spread it. Nor was Lucy. It wouldn't make sense. And the only other authentic source would be ...?"

"....would be the post mortem an' the local copper. But that couldn't be true either unless ...."

"No it couldn't. Unless ...."

D.I. Savage leant back in his chair and smiled at his sergeant.

"The great thing about loose ends is that if you have enough of them you can spin a thread."

D.I Harry Savage leant back and sipped his drink in a self satisfied sort of way.

"I think the two of them, Beatrice d'Auray and Lucy Sheldon, had a flaming row fuelled by drink, and disappointment, and jealousy, and perhaps despair. A flaming row that led to murder. Quite unpremeditated. Unwanted certainly for they had been lovers and were, as far as we can ascertain, probably still in love."

"Nasty thing love. Even nastier when it's of the passionate variety"

D.I Savage ignored his sergeant's digression. Refused to be distracted down its byways.

"Something snapped. And in a moment of madness a knife was picked up and used to kill. And effectively two lives were ended."

"Three lives if you count that of the unborn child."

As the two detectives sat for a moment in silence, each contemplating the tragedy, weighing it against their own experiences, their own expectancies, there was the sound of raised voices from among the four regulars. Lonesome George was in the process of leaving amidst some dissension surrounding his claim to smell the old lady's perfume fuelled by his colleagues' scepticism. Snatches of the conversation drifted down to them.

"Yer not only blind, yer potty as well." .... "I tells yer, I can smell the perfume on 'er. My nose is as good as yer bleedin' eyes any day o' the week".... "I knows when I can see sumpthin' and I knows when I bleedin' can't" .... "Yer can't see further than yer own bleedin' nose ... an that's not worf seein' neither ...."

The exchange then drifted into the strictly personal before Lonesome George, displaying a vigour surprising in one of his advanced years and outward decrepitude, stumped passed them, his white stick tap-tapping before him, and slammed out of the door, but not before calling back, repeating, to the room in general, "I tells yer, I can smell the perfume on 'er."

In the silence that followed both men sipped there beer considering the truth that lay before them. Then D.S. Quinn resumed the examination.

"But we don't really know do we?"

"No. Not all the details, but I think we know enough to be reasonably certain of the main facts. Especially that we now have confirmation of the DNA of the blood found on the knife."

"Not a match for James Edward Dearden after all?"

"No. That was the one stroke of luck. Having his grandson's body there. Nice and handy."

"So?"

"So not a shadow of doubt. Beatrice d'Auray killed Lucy Sheldon. It was Lucy's blood on the knife. We traced her niece and got a clear match."

"So they got it wrong all those years ago?"

"Understandable. They didn't know Beatrice d'Auray's background. Took her at face value. They found a young woman's body, badly burnt, just outside the dressing room of a star that had vanished. Blood inside the room itself. A cursory post mortem found she had been killed by a single stab wound to the heart, although the knife was not found."

"It probably showed as how she were pregnant as well, 'ence the rumour."

"Yes. There's a note to suggest that, more a query really. But it is all very sketchy, ambiguous. It was the height of the Blitz remember. They had over a hundred other bodies to deal with that day in Havelock Road alone. Count them and bury them was the routine. Make room for and prepare for the next batch in the night to come. A minor miracle they noticed the stab wounds and took a closer look."

"An' Beatrice d'Auray just upped it an' ran? Vanished into thin air?"

Harry Savage shrugged. "It wouldn't have been difficult. You could buy a wartime identity card for fifty pence in any pub around here in those days. Get one for free from a choice of corpses most nights."

"Could 'ave joined up I s'ppose. Joined the army and seen the world. An' afterwards, if she survived .... well .... an assisted passage to Oz for  £25 and no questions asked."

"You're wasted as a copper D.S. Quinn. With your imagination you should have been a writer and made your fortune."

"Wish you'd suggested it earlier Sir. It must be an easier way to make a livin' than 'untin' villains." He drained his glass. "Still whatever happened to him, it must 'ave been 'ard. A drunken moment and you kill the girl you love and her unborn child, and lose a wife and son. Leave them to grieve believing you dead."

"Mercifully I don't think it troubled him for long. Because I think he, or she rather, most probably died within a few hours of Lucy. I think Beatrice was killed in the air raid. One of the Luftwaffe's victims."

"Christ Sir, you accuse me of 'avin an 'eated imagination and then you leaps in with a dollop of second sight. You an' Lonesome should go into partnership."

"It's just a guess, but it may have some substance. One hundred and seventeen people died in that raid according to the records. Twenty three of the adults were never identified, because there wasn't enough of them left, or they were strangers, or those who could have identified them were also dead or .... Well of those twenty three only the sex is recorded. Fourteen were women and nine were men."

"So? What does that tell us?"

"Nothing. But those were the amended figures. Someone had had some crossing out to do. Quite spoilt what was otherwise an immaculate bit of penmanship. The original figures were fifteen women and eight men .... "

"And you think that .... "

"Yes. But who knows? It might just have been a recording error. But the pages were exceptionally neat and accurate apart from that. So I like to think .... Because it would have been an impossible burden to live with."

The sergeant smiled. "You're a tender hearted bastard deep down aren't you Sir," he said. "But don't worry, I won't tell anyone. And I do so 'ope as how you're right."

The tender hearted bastard pushed his empty glass away from him. "Time to go sergeant. No profit nor promotion in old cases. They don't count towards the station's targets."

"Still some loose ends about though Sir."

"There are always some loose ends about D.S. Quinn. It's in the little sods' nature. Which ones had you in mind?"

"Well Sir, the missing locket .... and the old woman that Dearden claimed to have met."

"Dearden could have lost the locket, given it away, or it might have slipped down the back of the the sofa in his flat. And as for the old woman we only have a mention of her in the roughly scribbled notes he made when he was apparently hallucinating after being badly beaten up. He was hardly in a rational state of mind let's face it. No one else saw her. Had ever seen her. "

"But what about her perfume and ....?"

"Quinn. If you mention deranged, decrepit, blind, Lonesome George in the same breath as reliable, testimony, or witness, I shall personally arrange for you to be transferred to traffic duty on the Isle of Sark."

"Sounds rather a cushy number Sir. But if you prefer I didn't ...."

"And they're all quite irrelevant any way. Nothing to do with anything. Will all be forgotten this time tomorrow. Not like ...."

The D.I stood for a moment by the table. Lost in a memory.

"Not like ...?" His sergeant prompted gently

"You didn't see it sergeant. And I wish to God I hadn't either. But Dearden's face .... his dead face .... when I saw it in Beatrice d'Auray's dressing room." He shook his head as if to dislodge the memory that haunted him.

And then abruptly. "When your time's up sergeant, if you're given the choice, don't opt for a heart attack."

"An' if I'm not offered a choice Sir?"

"Then bloody well make sure your relatives don't get to see your body. Not if you want them to remember you and be able to sleep again."

And with that the two policemen left The Quiet Woman to its three remaining, now silent, regulars and the barman who had returned to his obsessive glass cleaning duties.

And to the old lady sitting alone in the little alcove, seemingly unnoticed now that the blind seaman Pugh had departed. But anyone who had the eyes to see her might have noticed the sparkle of what could have been tears in the corners of her deep violet eyes. Might have caught the glint of the early afternoon sun as it glanced on the locket which nestled, half hidden, in the froth of lace cascading from her throat.

~ The End ~

Author's Note

I read one of Ian Rankin's 'Inspector Rebus' books a short while ago that had been printed in New York for the American market. Apart from the shock of hearing Edinburgh low life using the construct 'gotten', I managed to follow most of it without undue difficulty.

However there was a preface explaining the police ranks in the U.K. As my preface is already long enough and nicely symmetrical to boot, I have relegated this information to this end note. It is too late to be of any practical use of course but at least I have paid lip service to the principle.

D.I. stands for Detective Inspector. and D.S. stands for Detective Sergeant. They are plain clothes policemen apart, allegedly, from their boots.

But you already knew that didn't you?