[Edith Horton 05] - Murder in Retreat

by Noreen Wainwright

  He unclasped his hands and opened his eyes; the candlelight dazzling him, for a moment; brilliant sparks of white flame in the sober darkness of the chapel. Something prickled at the back of his neck and his shoulders drew together in a shudder.

  Canon Richardson’s eyes focused on him. Henry’s vision had cleared now. Instinct had made him look across at the canon and his instinct had been right. The instant the canon saw that Henry was looking, he lowered his eyes to his prayer book.

  Larry had filled him in a little on Canon Ephraim Richardson.

  “Didn’t spend long at all at the sharp end.” He laughed.

  “Listen to me—the sharp end. Anyone would think I was serving on the front line, or at the least, a police officer or fireman. I mean parish work. Richardson was completely unsuited and had no interest in people and their problems. He’s only interested in wresting the theological questions. The theory rather than the practice, you could say.

  So, as soon as he possibly could, he got a post in York cathedral.” He smiled at Henry.

  “Your neck of the woods, I suppose. Surprised you haven’t come across him?” Henry shook his head.

  “No, a different diocese, though the name is maybe a little familiar.”

  “You’ll probably have read some of his articles in the Church Times and he’s written at least two books—exploring the faith.”

  “Makes me feel pretty inadequate but I suppose we all can’t be scholars.”

  “Don’t think it would sit well with our church members, if we were. But, I suppose we need the academics too, the ones who can argue about angels with the non-believers.”

  As they left the chapel for the refectory and supper, Henry thought about Larry’s words. If the rest of them had come to St Chad’s for a spiritual renewal and maybe an escape from what could be a demanding life, what did Canon Richardson seek here?

  Whatever it was that he sought from St Chad’s, it was Henry he searched out after evensong, hanging back and coming quite close up alongside him.

  Only just in time, did Henry stop himself shrinking back. The atmosphere in this place must be affecting him. In Ellbeck and the countryside around, were a share of genuinely unsavoury characters. Washing facilities, or the need to make use of them wasn’t a priority for everyone. He’d swallowed his sensibilities and sat down to eat with more than one. Yet, this clean and presentable representative of the church’s hierarchy made him want to draw back.

  “Henry would you be kind enough to come to my room for a short while this evening?”

  Henry’s face must have been a picture.

  What on earth was all the secrecy about? Canon Richardson had positively sidled up to him as though they were in a spy film and almost whispered into his ear.

  “I can, of course. Maybe you could tell me now? Take a quick turn in the grounds, if you like? There’s usually a settling in time in the refectory—fifteen minutes or so, before supper is served.”

  “No.”

  Canon Richardson quickly followed up the refusal, recognising maybe that as the person asking the strange favour, he wasn’t in a position to be too demanding.

  “I mean that I’d very much prefer if I could speak to you in private, please Wilkes. It’s something I’m worrying about and not something I want discussed by our fellow clergy, here.”

  “Of course.” What else could he say? The canon’s room was on the floor directly above his. Everyone here tended to go up to their rooms not long after ten o’clock. Henry wasn’t the only one who found being with strangers tiring - even if a lot of that time, they were in silence. It was a strain.

  Tonight, they sat in the drawing room waiting for the highlight of the evening, the moment Fiona Elliott wheeled in the trolley that contained evening drinks. By now, she knew who had cocoa, Ovaltine and tea and who took sugar, so she was efficient and not in the room for long. The men fell over themselves being polite and gentlemanly towards her, with two exceptions.

  The first was young Roland Weston who, while not rude, hardly seemed to acknowledge the housekeeper’s presence in the room.

  Henry had seen this before. Love and concern for the whole of humanity didn’t always translate into treating those within one’s own orbit particularly well, including those who served. But, he should not be so judgemental. Weston was young, with time to learn. The second was David Fallon who didn’t make eye contact with the housekeeper. Maybe Henry knew the reason for that, now The two remaining clergy, Patterson and Finn, came from nearby Derbyshire. They knew each other and was usual when you came away to something like this with someone you knew, you didn’t always make the same effort to get to know others in the group. That applied to these two. In fact, Henry had to make a conscious effort to distinguish one from the other. They weren’t strikingly similar to look at but each of them had that stereotypical clerical and aesthetic look, fine featured and each wore spectacles.

  The people who interested Henry most in the group were, Weston, Bird and Fallon. The woman interested him too, Fiona Elliott.

  There was a coldness about her that was repellent but also just a little fascinating. If you had as little time for humanity as she appeared to, why would you put yourself in a position where you had to serve others and be polite to them? He could hear Edith’s voice in his head telling him that he was disregarding the obvious—that many people had no choice in the matter, particularly those in domestic service. Not for them the luxury of deciding who they served.

  Stephen Bird was still absent and Henry tried to rationalise away the prickle of unease this caused him. Bird could have taken himself off to walk the grounds or even to go to his room and have some time on his own. Then, the door opened and it wasn’t Fiona at all who pushed in the trolley but a young girl, Mary, who helped out in the kitchen.

  Well, he’d have to live with his curiosity. It would be good to talk over his concerns with Edith. Before writing the letter, though, he had to visit the canon and listen to whatever he had

  to say that was so important and top secret that it had to be discussed in such privacy.

  He gave it fifteen or so minutes before going up the back stairs to third floor. This house was full of hidden corners and unexpected alcoves. The back stairs must have been the ones used in the past by the house servants, when labour was plentiful and cheap. Henry shuddered as an image of a downtrodden maid, a child, flashed before his mind’s eye.

  This house and its inhabitants made him think and imagine too much. For an intense few seconds, he had such a longing to be with Edith. He remembered walking with Edith and her dog Max; their favourite walk out of Ellbeck over the dale and ending at the Old Schoolroom Teashop. He had five more days to go, and then he could go home.

  He knocked on the door he hoped was the right one and there wasn’t an immediate response. His patience with this whole performance wore thin. For the life of him, he couldn’t work out why he’d been chosen as the person the canon should confide in.

  He hesitated. Well, he wasn’t planning on standing here much longer. Just as he was thinking about rapping on the next door, he heard a small noise and the canon opened the door a crack.

  For goodness sake. Why this ridiculous subterfuge? Like a scene in a sensational Hollywood film, the canon looked to his right and his left and beckoned him into the bedroom. It was very untidy and there was a strong smell of tobacco smoke, which wasn’t in itself offensive but this smelt as though it had lingered too long and permeated the upholstery.

  Henry wasn’t the tidiest person in the world but it still irritated him that one person in a medium-sized room could have such a disregard for any kind of order. He might be over-doing it but it smacked of a muddled mind, something chaotic beneath the slight restrained figure.

  “What’s the matter, Canon. What’s troubling you?”

  The canon looked at him as though he was put out, surprised at Henry’s directness.

  “Will you have a drop of whiskey?”

  “No, I don�
��t think so.” This was the last thing he’d been expecting. It wasn’t a social get-together, was it? Also, the drinking in the room thing. Alcohol wasn’t forbidden, not explicitly and on their first night there had been claret on the long dining table but this was different. Or, maybe he was being a fuddy-duddy and he needed to relax a bit. Edith had told him so occasionally. She’d been joking though— – as far as he knew.

  “Well, I’ll have one, if you don’t mind.”

  Canon Richardson took the half-empty bottle of Ardour whiskey from the bedside locker and poured himself a good glass.

  “So, Canon, what is this about?”

  The canon took a swallow, grimaced and shook his head.

  “Run out of soda and water kills it. The thing is, Wilkes, I’ve had two notes pushed through my door in the past three days and when I went downstairs this morning, I tripped and nearly tumbled to the bottom.”

  He looked at Henry who had perched himself uncomfortably in a Lloyd Loom chair, too small and too frivolous for this room.

  When it was clear that Henry wasn’t about to help him out, he went on.

  “I know you think it would have been an accident but I can tell you now it wasn’t. There was a piece of string stretched across, tied to the banisters on either side, right on the top step.”

  Henry shook his head now. This really was the most stupid thing he had heard in a while. He could think of several reasons why it was stupid without even trying. His face must have showed his scepticism.

  “I can see you don’t believe me. You probably think I have been over-indulging.” He gave the angry little laugh Henry had heard from him before.

  “I can see the objections before you open your mouth, Wilkes…The first one—did I keep the notes? No, I didn’t. The first one, I was inclined to have the same reaction as you. I laughed at it and thought that somebody was having a joke, a not-very funny one but an attempt. The second note made me feel a tad uneasy.” The short laugh came again.

  “Yes, uneasy, you might say. I made sure the door to this room was locked and I kept my wits about me when I was on my own, walking in the grounds, even in the chapel, ludicrous as that sounds. But, when the tripping incident happened, I wasn’t laughing. It suddenly looked very different.”

  He removed his round spectacles and polished them with a small piece of yellow material.

  “It seems an awfully random act; putting a hazard like that in the way of well, anybody. Couldn’t another person have tumbled down the stairs?”

  Henry gave an involuntary shudder. The flight of stairs was steep, a back stairs, an old house and a thin carpet too, unlike

  the downstairs corridors and the stairs between the ground and first floors.

  “That’s the thing, Wilkes. You see, I’m the only person on this end of this floor and I also go down at exactly half-past seven each morning. The bell goes at seven and I go down at half-past.

  I’m a man of routine, Wilkes. Anyone who knows me or who has been watching me, would confirm that.”

  If he was, it didn’t apply to his room. Henry looked around again.

  The bed was strewn with shirts and trousers and newspapers. The desk under the window looked as though it was somebody’s permanent place of work, rather than a temporary station.

  “Is there anybody in the house who has reason to harm you, Canon?”

  It sounded ludicrous, something from a Dorothy L. Sawyer or a John Buchan novel.

  “Of course not. Why should anyone want to harm me, particularly in this house. I don’t know any of them. Not what you’d call know…I have come across Fallon and Bird before. Neither of them could have the slightest reason to want to threaten or harm me in any way.”

  An impasse then. If Canon Richardson genuinely believed that or refused to admit anything—far more likely the case, then what could Henry do?

  “Tthis morning’s incident decided it for me. I want someone in the house to know what’s going on. That’s all. If something happens to me in the next few days, then at least one other person should know about this.

  Henry had a feeling, a shivery feeling like an ominous shadow, half out of his line of vision. Then he just felt irritation.

  He stood up, tried to keep his voice pitched at neutral. There was no point in letting on that he felt manipulated. “I don’t see much point in that Canon. I’m not refusing to help you. I want to help you but I don’t think you’re telling me the whole story. Not at all. If you are in danger the police should be informed. If there is something between you and someone else in the house, then you should be straight with me.”

  He realised his voice was raised.

  Canon Richardson was watching him and there was the most curious look on his face, a speculative look.

  Henry shook his head trying to get rid of that feeling. This man was frightened, wasn’t he? He was asking for help, wasn’t he?

  Chapter Three

  John didn’t come back.

  An early morning silver light was visible in the crack between Hannah’s gingham curtains.

  Edith had stayed the night. Someone had told her brother, Archie, about John’s failure to come home and he’d come out to Braithwaite’s cottage, his face tight with concern. He liked John. Everyone liked John. The longer he was missing the more worrying the situation was. All his friends had been contacted.

  Inspector Greene had come back to the house at twenty to twelve and told them that no-one had any clue where John could have gone.

  Edith had a doubt though. Not that the inspector was keeping anything serious from them. He wouldn’t do that. But neither would he tell them every detail. There would be no point. Hannah was distraught enough, besides making her obsess over the slightest thing that one of his friends had said or thought.

  She was strong though. It didn’t come as a complete surprise to Edith. She’d seen it before when Cathy had been attacked; that time when Joshua Braithwaite came back disrupting all their lives.

  Now, Hannah moved to the stove, lifting the kettle.

  Edith’s stomach baulked at the thought of another cup of tea. The night had been punctuated by cups of tea. They sat in the kitchen, Hannah’s cat stretched out in front of the stove; like all cats, always after the optimum comfort even in the height of summer.

  At the beginning of the night, they had both stirred at every sound and then a curious state overtook them. A vigil—that must be what you’d call this. Edith’s mind had flown to her husband. A retreat, a vigil. One turning away from the world the other aware to the point of panic. Aware and poised. Retreat and vigil were similar in a way though. Both were states of suspension from normal life.

  “I’m going to make toast. We ought to have something, Edith, and I expect the police will bring our Cathy back soon.”

  “I think it was the right thing to leave it until the morning before telling her, Hannah. It would only have sent her into a panic and not achieved anything.”

  The police had agreed to call to her friend’s house at first light and tell Cathy of her brother’s disappearance, since it was so late by the time they concluded this was the case. For as long as possible, everybody had hoped that he had forgotten the time,

  was just late or had gone somewhere with a friend. The words rang hollow after about ten o’ clock. Hannah repeatedly said that this was out of character for John. He had not disappeared on a jaunt.

  Edith hesitated to ask Hannah if there had been anything unusual about John lately. It wasn’t fair to badger the woman. She kept thinking about it though. It was unlikely that he had been snatched. The police seemed fairly sure about that, or “as sure as we can be,” as Inspector Greene said. He had sat on the chair near Hannah and spoke to her more gently than Edith had ever heard him speak before.

  To Edith’s eyes, he had changed. The story was that his wife had left again, for good, this time. Edith had never set eyes on the woman, wouldn’t recognise her if she did, and now wasn’t the time to be thinking about his private
life. She and Inspector Greene had history; he reminded her of a troubled time in her life but to give credit where it was due, he had lost some of his abrasive manner.

  There was another pot of tea because how could you eat toast without it?

  “It will be a help when Cathy is back home, Hannah.” Edith had to say something and it was true. Cathy and her mother were close and she might have some ideas of where John might be.

  “I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to think of anything different about him, about John, and I think I have thought of something.”

  Edith put down the piece of toast and looked at Hannah. The sun was stronger now, and the curtains were drawn back and the harshness of the light was cruel in the way it showed the exhaustion and worry in her face. Edith had only known her like this once before.

  “It was about three weeks ago, and it went on for a few days—his mood, like. It was as if his mind were elsewhere and once he was pouring out a cup of tea only there was no cup there and the tea went all over the stove. I shouted at him and Cathy was laughing and asking him who the lass was. It was like a daft moment and forgotten and I suppose we all have them moments.”

  Edith agreed, “We do, I suppose. Well, I do. But at our age we laugh it off and say it’s because we are getting older. Isn’t it more unusual in a youngster, though?”

  “It’s only just come back to me. There was something on his mind, you see. I don’t think I even asked him. Now, I’m looking back and thinking that maybe he was a bit quieter too but I don’t know if I’m just imagining it. Oh…”

  She put her head in her cupped hands and her shoulders shook. It was the first signs of letting go Edith had seen.