The Death Chamber (25 page)

Walter said he had looked at the map and thought it was a fairly easy journey.

‘You normally take Thursdays as a free day, don’t you? Then since tomorrow is Thursday, I suggest you try to see Mr and Mrs Molland then.’

‘That’s what I thought of doing. Molland is semi-retired, so there’s a good chance he’ll be at home. If not, I’ll try to arrange a visit when he is at
home.’

‘There isn’t much time left to us.’

‘Five days,’ said Walter.

As he drove away from Thornbeck, down the winding lane that was now so familiar, past the field beyond which he could see Sir Lewis’s house, Walter was already wondering
if he was doing the right thing. He was uneasily aware that he liked Neville Fremlin far more than was professional – or even safe – and he was not sure how much this feeling was
influencing his judgement. He wondered if he might be making this visit in order to satisfy himself of Fremlin’s guilt.

But how much proof do you need? he asked himself. The entire West Yorkshire and Cumbria police force had irrefutable evidence of Fremlin’s guilt. Large sums of money had been paid into his
bank account on dates that fitted with the disappearances of two of the victims. He had been identified as being the man who had sold, to second-hand jewellers in Carlisle and Lancaster, jewellery
that had belonged to three of the victims – quite a lot of jewellery, and much of it valuable. One of the women had drawn a bank draft two days before her death, and that draft had been paid
into Fremlin’s account by Fremlin himself. Finally, most damning of all, the police had followed Fremlin and had seen him actually burying the body of the last victim in Becks Wood. Near the
other four bodies.

It was incontestable. Was that why Fremlin had never bothered to contest any of it? Why he had politely declined to give evidence at his trial? Why he had sat silent and graceful as a cat in the
dock, listening to the parade of facts being unrolled, inclining his head slightly when the jury convicted him and when the judge pronounced the death sentence. The judge, Walter remembered, had
agreed so wholeheartedly with the jury’s verdict that he had given a little homily on how Fremlin must surely be soulless and the personification of evil to have battened on these lonely
defenceless women. The press had seized on that with relish, of course.

And yet, thought Walter . . . And yet . . .

Yes?

I can’t square that business about evil and soullessness with the man inside Calvary, he thought. I can’t see the man I’ve talked to coldly seeking out rich women for their
money, then stabbing and strangling them.

He pushed the macabre images away and concentrated on the journey. It was pleasant countryside – the Yorkshire Dales and the Pennine Hills were ahead of him. He reached Knaresborough
halfway through the morning and drove through it, liking the bright little market town with the ruins of the castle looking down from its hill and the glimpses of the river.

It was necessary to ask for directions to Ivy House which was a few miles outside the town, but Walter found it without too much difficulty. Edgar Higneth had described the Mollands as
prosperous middle-class people, and the house was quite large and affluent-looking. A neat maid opened the door and after a brief wait Walter was taken to a long drawing room, furnished in the
rather heavy style of forty years earlier. Mr and Mrs Molland were older than Walter had been expecting – she was certainly well over fifty and her husband looked as if he was approaching
sixty. They were rather like their house: solid and well upholstered. Years of large meals and security, thought Walter. I dare say they haven’t lived especially exciting lives, but
they’re a decent couple. A spurt of anger went through him that these nice, ordinary people had had to suffer such anguish.

He explained his errand, careful to emphasize that he was here unofficially, but that he had talked to Neville Fremlin in his professional capacity. At the mention of the name Mrs Molland gave a
shiver and Walter saw Molland put out a hand to comfort her. Yes. Nice people, once living normal happy lives. And that monster in Calvary had ruined their lives for ever. (That’s better,
said the inward voice. Think of him as a monster.)

‘I’m not exactly spying on Neville Fremlin,’ he said carefully. ‘But the police have asked me to be alert for any clue that might lead them to the truth about your
daughter. Mrs Molland, I’m so sorry – I know this must be deeply distressing for you.’

‘Tell us what you need to know, Dr Kane,’ said Molland. He was a large, rather portly man, and Walter thought he had probably been indulgent in his treatment of his wife and
daughter. There was a slight northern accent and an aura of no-nonsense business dealings and aldermen’s public duties.

‘It’s not knowing what happened to our girl,’ said his wife. ‘We haven’t even a grave to tend.’

The voice in Walter’s mind said, Remember these people’s grief when you go into the condemned cell tonight. Keep remembering it. Aloud, he said, ‘Could you tell me a bit about
Elizabeth? She used to go into Fremlin’s shop sometimes, didn’t she?’

‘Indeed she did, Dr Kane. Lotions and scented soaps and suchlike she’d buy. Girl’s fripperies, but we made no objection. She had her allowance to spend as she liked.
She’d go into Knaresborough with a friend or with her mother, and they’d do some shopping and have a cup of tea in one of the little teashops.’

‘She was a bit frivolous at times,’ put in his wife eagerly, ‘but she was only nineteen. And she was a good girl, Dr Kane Not one to have her head turned by – by that
man.’

‘Not by any man,’ said Molland firmly, and Walter thought: well, if she didn’t have her head turned once or twice, she was probably the first girl of nineteen who
didn’t.

‘She’d wrap her dad round her little finger,’ said Mrs Molland indulgently. ‘She had such pretty ways, Dr Kane.’

‘It’s a sad man who can’t let his daughter coax him,’ said Molland.

This is dreadful, thought Walter, but he set himself to go on, and choosing his words with care, he said, ‘Had she a young man?’

‘Oh no,’ they both said at once.

‘One or two young men had admired her, of course.’ This was Mrs Molland, displaying an eager pride that cut through Walter like a knife. ‘What with her being so pretty and
dainty. I have a photograph here if you’d like to see . . .’

The photograph, predictably, was in a silver frame and had pride of place on the mantelpiece. Walter studied it with interest. Elizabeth Molland had been a very pretty girl indeed. Masses of
fair hair and dark, slightly upward-slanting eyes. Yes, she would have coaxed her doting father into doing anything she wanted. He would have known he was being coaxed, but not minded.

‘Thank you,’ he said, carefully replacing the photograph. ‘She’s very lovely indeed. Beautiful eyes.’ He was glad he could say this with complete truth; he did not
want to lie to these people and he thought they would have known if he had done so.

‘I make no doubt there was a bit of giggling with her friends about the young men they met at various little parties and social gatherings,’ said Molland, studying the photo fondly.
‘That’s natural at nineteen, Dr Kane. But we always knew where she was. She never spent an hour out of our sight but what we knew where she was and who she was with.’

‘You hear such dreadful things, these days,’ put in his wife. ‘Girls getting themselves into trouble— But we’d brought her up right, you see. We made sure she had
friends of her own age – daughters of our own friends they’d be in the main. Or Mr Molland’s business acquaintances and the like.’ Again there was the note of pride.

‘Church every Sunday, of course,’ said Molland. ‘And I made no objection to Elizabeth joining one or two of the groups attached to St Luke’s.’

A picture was forming in Walter’s mind of an ordinary lively nineteen-year-old girl, perhaps a bit rebellious at her elderly, old-fashioned parents, possibly occasionally telling a
harmless fib or two to escape their protection. Laughing with other girls, and exchanging secrets about young men – possibly meeting one young man in particular and permitting a few guilty
embraces. All entirely normal and harmless. A girl who, in a year or two’s time, would have married some nice, suitable young man, and had children of her own.

He said, ‘That last evening . . .’

‘Dr Kane, I shall never forgive myself,’ said Mrs Molland. ‘A musical evening it was – such as we often used to attend, being so fond of music. And Elizabeth enjoyed
coming with us. A grown-up night, that’s what she used to say. And she’d dress up in one of her best frocks, and wear her jewellery and we’d be so proud of her.’

‘The police believed it was the jewellery that attracted him,’ said Molland. ‘That man, I mean.’

They can’t bring themselves to say Fremlin’s name, thought Walter, torn with pity all over again. He asked if the jewellery had been valuable.

‘Not especially. Trinkets we’d given her over the years – birthdays and Christmases, you know. Seed pearls and turquoise. But they made her look – prosperous. Cared
for.’

‘He liked the rich ones,’ said Mrs Molland simply. ‘He liked to go where there was money.

‘Yes.’ Walter remembered how Fremlin had talked about attending first nights at the theatre and concerts, enjoying drinks at the interval and supper afterwards.

‘The police notified jewellers in the area, thinking the pieces might be offered for sale, but they got no information,’ Molland was saying. ‘Not surprising though, when you
think of the number of jewellers even in this county.’

‘Not surprising at all,’ said Walter. ‘Mr Molland – you’ve both been very frank with me and I’m grateful. If I can find out anything at all that would bring
you a little comfort, I promise I’ll let you know. I talk to Fremlin each day.’

‘If we could just know what happened to her,’ said Mrs Molland, twisting her handkerchief between her hands. ‘If we knew for sure she was dead. We’d cope with that after
so long. We’d have a little memorial tablet in St Luke’s, wouldn’t we, Joe?’

‘It’d be a comfort,’ said Molland briefly.

‘Yes, I understand that.’ Walter’s mind slipped back over the years to his mother saying, ‘I can’t even have a memorial stone for your father, Walter. I wish I
could; it would be such a comfort.’ But there could be no memorial stone to a man hanged for betraying his country.

He got up to go. ‘There’s nothing you can think of that would help me to – to find a way into Fremlin’s mind? Anything about her friends, her life? Her childhood,
even?’

He felt, rather than saw, a response to this last question. Like the flicker of an electrical current before it springs into life in a dark room. Like the faint quiver of a pulse in an
unconscious man’s body. Unmistakable. The silence stretched out, and Walter tried to think of something to say that might encourage them, but he could not and the moment passed.

Molland saw him politely to the door, shaking hands. ‘We’re grateful for your concern, Dr Kane.’

‘The execution is in four days’ time,’ said Walter. ‘I expect you know that, though.’

‘We do.’

Of course they would know. They would be counting the days away until the man they thought had killed their daughter himself died.

‘I’m only sorry we couldn’t tell you anything to help,’ said Molland.

Walter drove back into the town centre, and parked his car. There was one more thing he wanted to do while he was here, and there was plenty of time. Had he got the directions right? Yes, here
was the street, quite near to the centre. It was a lively little part of the town – there were a number of smartly painted shops selling a variety of goods: a ladies’ dress shop with
costumes and svelte evening dresses, labelled ‘Paris Fashion, Latest Mode’. Next to it was a milliner’s. Then a leather goods shop with handbags and dressing-cases. After that a
draper’s, with a discreet display of silk stockings and wisp-like underwear. Several doors along was a rather fussy-looking teashop with potted palms and wicker basket chairs, advertising
‘Morning Coffee and Cream Teas’. It was exactly the kind of little street that ladies would enjoy visiting: there would be an inspection of the frocks, hats and bags, and then a cup of
coffee or tea to discuss purchases made or being considered.

The bow-windowed shop beyond the draper’s was like a dark blemish on the street. The windows were boarded up and a tattered fly poster hung from one pane. It was unkempt and uncared for,
and the paint was already peeling from the once-scarlet shop door. Someone had tried to paint out the legend over the door itself, but the letters were still readable and they proclaimed the little
shop as the place that had been splashed across the national newspapers.

N. FREMLIN PHARMACIST AND DISPENSER

This is where he worked, thought Walter staring up at the words. This is where he mixed his potions and prepared his draughts. This is the place the police examined over and over again for clues
– for tattered fragments of humanity, for bloodstains or gold rings or fingernails or shoe buckles. In the end they had found nothing to add to the evidence already gathered, but it had not
mattered because the evidence they had was more than enough to send a man to the gallows in five days’ time.

Walter had expected to find the place firmly secured, and probably it had been until recently. But time or neglect, or both, had rusted the door lock from its hinges and when Walter put out a
cautious hand, it swung inwards with an unpleasant scrape against the wooden floor. He glanced up and down the street, but the afternoon was already sliding into evening and most shoppers had long
since gone home. Into the murderer’s den, then . . .

It was larger than he had thought: reading the newspaper reports he had visualized a mean poky little place. But of course, the man who had enjoyed London first nights and who had requested
poetry to read in the condemned cell, would not have associated himself with anything second rate or down at heel. The interior of the shop was spacious and even with the accumulated dust
everywhere, it was plain that this had been a very classy establishment. There was a counter for the business of selling and buying, but there was also a section devoted to cosmetics and lotions
– the ‘fripperies’ that Elizabeth Molland’s father had referred to. The remains of display cabinets stood against one wall, and there was a small area furnished with several
comfortable chairs and a low table, where, Walter supposed, customers might have been invited to wait for their prescriptions to be dispensed.