She crossed the room and put her hand on the other woman’s shoulder. What was there to say? How could this time of waiting be anything other than dreadful?
They had both probably tired of saying the same things over and over; that Inspector Greene, whatever else you might think about him, was very thorough; that Cathy would soon be home. If Cathy had any idea how much both of them wanted her to return, she’d brave hell and high water to get here.
They stayed like that for several seconds. Hannah with her head in her hands, Edith standing with her hand on Hannah’s shoulder.
A noise made them both start, almost jump, in Hannah’s case. It was only the cat, jumping from the armchair making both of them smile, in spite of the situation.
“I’d better feed you, puss,” Hannah got up slowly as if she ached, which she probably did after a night in the armchair.
Edith could do with going home herself, a bath, a change of clothes. But that would not be feasible until Cathy came back.
The sound of the car made them both look towards the door.
Cathy stood in the kitchen as though poised for flight. There was a sheen of sweat on her face. Her face told a story of someone who had been through an ordeal. Edith could imagine what her thoughts had been like on the journey here. She was protective of John. Edith’s mind went back to the day Cathy had been attacked here in this house and left for dead.
Since that time, the girl had blossomed. She’d fought odds of class and expectation to get to this point. A teacher soon.
Hannah had run to the door and put her arms around her daughter, again, showing a trace of vulnerability. But, Cathy stood awkwardly, rigidly, almost. It struck something in Edith, something she couldn’t identify, beyond the shock you would expect, there was something else.
“Let me pour you some tea?” Hannah had pulled back too, and Edith knew she hadn’t imagined Cathy’s reaction.
“You should have let me know, last might, mam.” Cathy sat still rigid at the table. Beyond smiling a little pained smile at Edith, she hadn’t spoken. Maybe it was as simple as her feeling she should have been told of John’s disappearance straightaway last night.
“Oh, Cathy. It weren’t that simple.” She sighed, exhausted and looked at Edith.
“You see, for a while none of us seriously thought John was missing. Your mother was concerned that he hadn’t come home.”
Hannah broke in, eager. “I got mixed up. Stupid. I thought it was last night he was going to Freddie Earnshaw’s to play about with that Airfix they’re always at.”
“He’s been quieter than normal. I thought there was something.”
“Don’t torment yourself, Cathy. The police will know what they’re doing and John has his head screwed on.” Edith closed her eyes for a second as the clichés poured out of her mouth.
“Has he, though?”
“How do you mean, Cathy?” Her mother got up out of her chair, agitated. “What do you mean by that?”
Oh, Mam, I don’t know what I mean.” Her irritation with her mother was more apparent now and Edith had a pang of unease.
“I don’t mean anything, mam. He’s fifteen and a bit moody, that’s all.” Hannah’s voice rose a little. “One thing our John is not is moody.”
“Right then, he’s not moody, not secretive, and I’ve imagined it.
Mam, you just don’t see it. You want to keep him as your little boy and I suppose he plays up to that too. He’s growing up. Open your eyes.”
Hannah’s face changed, a tremor around her mouth and for the first time, Edith thought she was going to break down and weep and wail. No-one could blame her if she did.
Instead, she took a big breath and got up and began to clear the table.
Cathy got up too. “I’m going to get changed.” Edith had never heard Cathy like this before, sharp almost impatient with her mother; not giving comfort.
Her face as she went through the kitchen door was set in misery.
“The nearby moors, farmers’ sheds. The Ell…” Greene stood with his back to the window.
Bill Brown was back at the station. Greene had made him go home at one a.m. and he hadn’t argued. He had fallen into bed, and knew no more until the alarm drilled into his sleep at half-past six. He’d been groggy and had a headache right over his eyes, in his forehead.
“Are you all right, lad?” His mam frowned as she poured his tea.
There was no need for her to get up and make his breakfast but she told him it was hard for her to let go of the habit of a lifetime.
“Not enough sleep but the inspector probably never went home at all. I wonder if there will be any news, today?”
“Where in God’s name can he have got to, Bill, a young lad like that? His poor mother. Poor Hannah and she’s had enough troubles with that husband and Cathy being attacked a few years back.”
“Mam, stop it. You’re talking like the worse had happened but we don’t know that. It were a while before his mother even realised he was missing. There might be a simple explanation.”
“You’re right, Bill. I’m letting my imagination run away with me.”
On his way into work though, through the silver mist that probably meant another scorcher of a day, he tried and failed to come up with a simple explanation. Even riding his Triumph motorcycle, his proudest possession, brought him no real distraction. The novelty of it hadn’t worn off yet. But the power of it and the smooth hum of its engine just felt ordinary today.
The problem was, he could identify with a boy of fifteen, especially one who didn’t have a father around. It was ridiculous because it had been more than a decade since he was that age but this morning and last night he could remember so much about that time in his life. Your mates were your whole world. Every now and then you looked at an adult and thought they seemed like a different species altogether. Then you realised that would be you
—not a million years from now, and you felt like running and jumping with the excitement of it. You could leave this place and go anywhere, be anything you wished to be. As it turned out, he hadn’t gone far—not yet, anyhow.
He’d been obsessed with Biggles and flying planes. That was another thing; fifteen was an age to become fanatical about something. Boys in Bill’s class had collected cigarette papers and built model Airfix automobiles. That was something young Braithwaite had been interested in. His mother thought he was at Freddie Earnshaw’s house when he hadn’t returned from school.
Wonder if young Braithwaite had become obsessed with something?
Brown had reached the station, and left his bike behind the building in a stone shelter.
This was the case that was going to form him. He knew it. His knowledge of how a young lad’s mind worked would lead them to finding out what happened. Inspector Greene was a good policeman and an awful lot more human since that business with his wife last year but he didn’t have the best grasp of young people—or of women either, in Bill’s book.
“Are you going to school?”
Freddie’s mother only just glanced at him from her usual perch by the unlit fire. He sighed. He sounded like an old man and he nearly grinned at the thought of it. But there was nothing to grin about this morning. Something bad had happened to his best friend; he knew it. He wasn’t going to open his mouth to that inspector or the sergeant either, though he’d been a bit friendlier than the older man. A promise was a promise. If a man didn’t stick to his word what else did he have? His older brother Joe had heard him say something like that once and nearly pissed himself laughing.
“Men, men. You’re a pair of gormless youths, you and that Braithwaite.” Then he’d given him a light tap on the jaw, followed by one that wasn’t so light, and he would have been on top of him wrestling him to the floor if their mam hadn’t shouted at them. She was always shouting these days.
Maybe if she wasn’t so bad-tempered he might be able to talk to her about what was troubling him, worrying him. John would be all right. Wouldn’t he? He
knew what he was doing. He’d been sure of himself, not frightened like Freddie would have been. It was a heavy weight on Freddie’s shoulders though. He’d have to go to school. He got up and went out into the hall to get his bag.
“I’m going to school,” he called to his mother. She didn’t answer him; probably didn’t care whether he went or not, too wrapped up in her own troubles. If all everybody at school was talking about was John’s vanishing act, then he might have to turn around and come away home again, pretend he was ill or summat. No, not home.
That really would drive him round the twist.
“Why are you still even going to that place anyway…” His mother was back on that refrain again. She kept going on about how a strapping lad like him should be out at work, earning his keep.
She hadn’t always talked like that—time was when she had encouraged him to better himself, she’d been the one who insisted he go to the secondary school.
He wanted to be an engineer. The future was in the combustion engine and the very thought of where it might lead made his heart trip and race. He and John had that in common, though John was mad about tractors. He told Freddie that when he was younger it had been aeroplanes; all the developments in flying since the war. But, now it was farming. His father, who he’d ever only talked about twice had been some sort of a maintenance man in a big house and John said he’d been clever with his hands, practical. It was the only good thing he’d said about his father.
Even his letter to Edith wasn’t enough to settle Henry’s mind. It usually served as a calming end to the day—a way of reminding himself where home was. But, the absence of Bird and then that strange conversation with the canon had unnerved him. Was the canon taking him for a fool? There was no way of being sure of it
but his gut told him Canon Richardson had been setting a scene when he told him about the threat and the attempt to hurt him.
More than hurt—those stairs were dangerously steep.
Henry tried to pray, tried to breathe deeply in and out; something Edith had told him she’d learned from that doctor she still sometimes saw. It worked for a while and he dozed, then woke as though he was choking, in the middle of a bad dream only leaving tendrils of itself behind to trouble him. The details were gone.
He would somehow find a way to telephone his wife tomorrow. They were meant to leave the outside world behind and immerse themselves in the retreat. Well, this time it wasn’t working. If he could just speak to Edith it might put his mind at rest. It became more than a thought, now. He wanted it to be morning—to be a reasonable time to approach Brother Malcolm and ask to use the telephone.
Something in him let go as soon as he resolved to do that, and he slept.
There was a storm; a sudden out of control storm with crashing thunder and he was trying to run for shelter before the rain.
Henry jumped awake out of his dream. It wasn’t thunder at all but someone banging on his door. His mouth was dry with his heart beating almost up in his throat.
At the door stood young Roland Weston, face white, in the dim light, the brown rims of his round glasses clearly defined. Henry had switched on the electric light switch just inside the door.
Its stark, unforgiving light made the boy look ill. Henry’s heart fell and his nameless sense of dread came back with a vengeance.
“I found him. He’s dead. I’m sure he’s dead.” He swayed, and that brought Henry right out of his shock. He was awake. Alert.
He put a hand on the boy’s arm. Like Henry, he’d just dragged on a pair of trousers and a shirt. Henry saw that his body had started to shake.
“Come in,” Henry looked down the corridor. A light at the far end, dim, high in the wall was the only relief in the darkness.
He hadn’t glanced at his alarm clock but his inner clock told him it must be about one or two in the morning. There was no sign of dawn which came very early at the moment. He hadn’t been asleep very long.
“No, you’d better come with me.” Henry had a few seconds indecision while his mind raced.
“You need something warm on you.” He got the sports jacket Edith had insisted he bring, and pushed it at the young man.
Hurry up, he silently urged Roland as the boy struggled with the sleeve.
Henry closed his eyes, praying for patience. He struggled for the strength to deal with whatever had happened in this place that was meant to be a retreat and up to now proved something very different.
Bird lay on his side on the patch of lawn directly below where Roland’s room was.
“I heard a noise, a shout or a call. I was asleep and it took me a while to realise what it was. I thought I was dreaming.”
They moved quickly down the stairs, Roland’s voice little more than a whisper, an agitated whisper.
“You didn’t call anyone?” Stupid question. It was obvious that the only person Roland had alerted was Henry, himself.
“No, you were the nearest. I went down myself, saw him, saw the shape. Look, I left the door open.”
The back door was unbolted. A sliver of silver moonlight and stars dotted the indigo sky. Not quite as dark as Henry had first thought.
He knelt by the figure. It was instantly apparent that he’d been struck in the back of the head. He was slumped as though he’d crumpled rather than fallen to the ground.
The blood on the dark hair was still wet; he might even be still bleeding. Slow and steady, Henry told himself. He was never squeamish as a child growing up in the Yorkshire countryside.
Very few lads had been in those days. It was a part of country life, shooting, snares too, though he’d had a secret repulsion to them They weren’t fair. But, the war had changed something in him. Now, the sight of blood brought a physical reaction he couldn’t control. No, he could control it. It just took a moment and an effort.
He put his fingers on the side of the man’s neck. The skin was clammy, cold. It was a warm night. Though a terrible shudder of cold went through Henry’s body, he couldn’t feel a pulse. He knelt back and looked again at the way the man lay or slumped, semi-prone. He tried again, farther forward, this time, feeling with his two fingers, hardly daring to breathe; this time he thought he felt something. Not sure, sometimes, it was your own pulse you could feel. Terrible suspension, making his touch lighter. There was a pulse, faint, thread, definitely not his. He knew that. It crossed his mind to ask Roland to check. No. That wasted time.
“I think he’s alive. We need to get help, immediately. Go and rouse Brother Malcolm. No, telephone 999 first, the telephone is in the hall. Will you be able to do it? Fast?”
“I’ll go now.”
“Yes. I’ll stay with him. Someone should stay with him. His airway…” Unbidden flashes of the past crowded into Henry’s mind as he knelt there. Times in the field station and once or twice on the field. Saying prayers into ears where the hearing failed; seeing a film take away life from the eyes, strain to hear broken disjointed sentences and half-sentences.
Stop it, stop it, stop it . This was doing no good. The past needed to be pushed back into its box. For now, anyway. This wasn’t a battle he normally had to fight. Unlike Stephen Bird, for example.
There, that was better. He’d forced his mind back to where it should be.
A sudden noise forced his heart into his throat again. He realised that Bird’s breathing had changed. It had become louder, much louder, stertorous, was that the word? He couldn’t remember if it was a good or a bad sign. There was a type of breathing, Cheyne-Stokes—that was not good. Was this it? He listened. It was heavy, almost snoring but it was regular.
There was a commotion and Brother Malcolm was beside him, an overcoat over striped pyjamas.
“What a thing, to happen. Poor man.”
He bent down, alongside Henry and there was a smell of some strong mint from him. Henry remembered him saying about having a summer cold. What a stupid, random thought.
“He’s alive, though. That’s the important thing now. I turned hi
s head to keep the airway clear.”
“It must have been an accident.” On the point of contradicting him, Henry changed his mind and kept his mouth shut. He was as sure as it was possible to be that this was no accident but, if Brother Malcolm needed to think that for now, let him. Anyway, the police would be here hopefully soon and they would be the ones to say for definite that the man had been attacked.
“I’ve called them and I’ve said that I’ll wait at the front entrance, just outside the door and direct them.” Roland had quietly joined them.
Roland’s voice was calm. In fact, the young man had come into his own. His idealism and earnestness were only two facets of him. He was calm when the situation required it and practical. Henry would point that out to Bird when the opportunity presented
itself. He was assuming Bird would recover. It was a big assumption. He was deeply unconscious and the blow to his head…
would there be lasting brain damage, even if they saved his life and he lived?
“What do you think we should do about alerting the rest of those in the house?” Henry asked. Thank God that wasn’t his decision.
The next few minutes hopefully, would bring the arrival of the ambulance and the police and some of those asleep were sure to be disturbed by the noise.
“Oh, Lord knows,” said Brother Malcolm. Sharply. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It isn’t your fault. I’m not sure.
Thing is, Wilkes, I’m all right in an administrative role so long as everything is jogging along. I don’t get called upon to make serious decisions as a rule.” His tone was rueful, a man aware of his own limitations, out of his depth. “I think I’d tell people as and when they ask for now, for the rest of the night unless the police deem differently. They might want to wake everyone up, I suppose but I don’t think there’s anything to be gained by rousing everyone and making a general announcement.”
“Yes and it might have been an accident,” Brother Malcolm was clinging to that and Henry wondered if he really believed it or was it wishful thinking.
The swish of tyres put the thought out of his head. An ambulance drew up and Henry felt as though he might just collapse with the relief of it. He stood up and every muscle shouted in pain. He’d been crouched in an awkward position for what seemed a long time and holding himself so rigidly that the muscles in his shoulder and legs in particular felt so painful.
[Edith Horton 05] - Murder in Retreat Page 4