[Edith Horton 05] - Murder in Retreat

by Noreen Wainwright

  But, still, Brown felt uneasy and the lad wasn’t back home yet.

  Chapter Ten

  Staffordshire

  “Would you have a moment, Wilkes?”

  They were on their way out of the chapel and Henry had woken in a much better mood. Things had settled down here, it seemed, apart from Canon Richardson and something had shifted in the way he viewed the elderly man. He had spoken to Canon Richardson’s housekeeper yesterday. He’d offered to do it, telling Brother Malcolm that he was worried about him.

  “I’d be grateful if you did, Wilkes and no, I don’t think you are over-stepping any mark—far from it.”

  The woman sounded timid over the telephone.

  “So, who is it you say you are? I thought it was a Brother Malcolm directing the retreat.”

  “It is. My name is Henry Wilkes, Reverend Wilkes. I’m vicar and rural dean in North Yorkshire I hope you don’t mind but we are all a bit worried about the canon. He seems to feel that he is in danger and he has button-holed me several times, really quite distressed.”

  Henry paused. His hand gripped the telephone cord. He wasn’t sure what answer he wanted—that all of this was a complete aberration—

  or not.

  “Oh, dear, Reverend Wilkes. I’m sorry and I feared this would happen. We feared it would happen. We have had several episodes like that. Of late though, just recently he seemed calmer. We were worried about him going away but his lordship thought it might actually do him some good and the canon was insistent. We thought the familiarity as he has attended St Chad’s for years…

  But…oh dear…”

  So he had misjudged the man. Telling himself that there was indeed a lesson to be learned, Henry replaced the receiver, having reassured Mrs Rogers, the housekeeper, and told her that the bishop telephoning Brother Malcolm was the best idea.

  Brother Malcolm led the way to his office. Why did Henry feel as though he was being summoned to the headmaster’s study?

  Ridiculous. So much for his mood of renewal and optimism this morning.

  The symmetrical proportions of this building, the cornices and wood panelling soothed Henry’s soul. Was it wrong to buttress the church and those who worked for it in aesthetically satisfying buildings amidst comfort and security, whilst outside was misery and unemployment, poor housing and conditions? You could never reach a conclusive answer on that. Who would want to rid the world of places of beauty? Especially in cities. The possibility of getting away from the clamour and spending twenty minutes in a cool, lofty art gallery, or a sweet safe place of worship—well it would be a wretched world without it.

  A tray of coffee soon came after Brother Malcolm phoned down to the kitchen. He poured the drinks into the china mugs, intently, all his focus on the mundane task and Henry studied him.

  His mild, kind face was tight and clenched and the bags under his eyes were something Henry had not noticed before. Goodness knew what kind of strain he was under. It may seem a cushy enough number presiding over a well-practiced and planned retreat but not so when things went wrong.

  “I find myself in even more of a quandary, Wilkes.” Brother Malcolm dropped the small coffee spoon onto the rug under the table and muttered irritation at his clumsiness. The man was rattled.

  “What is it, Brother Malcolm?” He’d not seen the police in the house for the last couple of days.

  “The housekeeper now wants to leave. She came to me first thing this morning. Would I let her go without notice? I ask you. What timing.”

  “Fiona Elliott.” There was a sharp tug of something inside Henry.

  “She told me that she wasn’t happy here, that she felt unsafe.

  Unsafe. I’m not sure whether she was only talking about what happened to Stephen Bird.”

  It was a random decision then, or maybe there was more to it. It was like Malcolm read his mind. “She became defensive when I tried to get to the bottom of it. Made it clear that she wasn’t going to elaborate. It leaves us in a complete pickle, though, Wilkes.” There was something other worldly about the man, something Henry had already caught glimpses of. A pickle indeed.

  “I was wondering if you would have a word with her, Wilkes. It’s a dreadful thought—to be here, to try and go on without having someone at the helm in the kitchen. It’s basic for us all. We have another conference booked for a couple of day after you leave—a conference for missionaries. They have a lot to contend with these days, our missionaries. There are those who argue that they should not be out there at all. Some of the anti-empiricists, using the same argument…” He blinked, eyes looking weak, aware maybe that he was veering away from the subject of Fiona Elliott.

  A thrush sang just outside the window and Henry was brought into the world outside of this place. How claustrophobic it was starting to feel.

  “How long has she been here, Brother Malcolm?”

  “About ten years I would say. Quite a while now. Came with her young son, father died. She’d been working in another church retreat house, in London. Completely different from us here.

  Might have read about it. St Gabriel’s, Notting Hill?”

  Henry shook his head. A rural dean and country vicar like him.

  Unlikely to keep up with some of the church developments, particularly in London.

  “Well, very different from our establishment here. Much more vocal in their worship, as far as I understand. Our bishop here, at the time, Lionel Wight, disapproved and she might not have secured the post at all but we were desperate, housekeepers were hard to come by, even then, especially one who would be prepared to live in and I think he may have also been swayed by her plight. On her own with a young son.”

  “She must have settled in though? To have stayed all this time.”

  “She plays her cards close to her chest. I don’t know if I could ever say that she was happy in her job or unhappy, for that matter. But, she is efficient. I don’t have to worry about the running of the house, the planning of meals, ordering of supplies

  —all of that. To tell you the truth, I scarcely know where to start.”

  He did look helpless but why on earth did he think Henry could persuade her? As far as he could say, Henry would have said the woman disliked him.

  “You’re approachable, Wilkes. I may not always be as observant as I should be but I have noticed that much. Even the poor canon has sought you out.”

  “I will have a word.” Where on earth had that come from? Henry had been about to say the very opposite. He must be as susceptible to flattery as the next man.

  “I don’t think I’ll get her to change her mind but I will try. I suppose she’s leaving because of what happened in the house but as you say, she has taken a while to come to that decision.”

  Henry went to the kitchen, feeling completely out of his depth.

  She didn’t make it easy for him, at the start. “I’ve been with Brother Malcolm, just now, and I think he hoped I might act as an intermediary—maybe persuade you to stay on, at least in the short term until he can, erm…replace you.” He glanced at her. “I’m not sure why he needed an intermediary. He talked to me himself, when I told him what I had decided. It’s time for me to move on. You will be coming round to asking me whether my decision is connected with what happened to Stephen Bird. Yes, if I’m to be honest with you, it’s what finally decided it for me. I don’t feel safe in the house and I’m certainly not staying in a place that makes me feel like this, not to mention bringing my son here.”

  It was the most he had heard her say, ever. She was less difficult than he feared and that made him persist.

  “Do you have any idea what made someone attack Stephen Bird, or who might have done it?” She glanced at him, smiled and took out a packet of cigarettes. He shook his head when she proffered the pack.

  “No, thank you, I don’t smoke. I’m sorry if you think I’m overstepping the mark, but…” He held out his hand. “You’re going, you make no bones about it, so you have nothing to lose by bei
ng frank.” An eyebrow was arched and her smile was the merest upturn in one corner of her mouth.

  “Well, I’ll give it to you for your straight talking, Reverend Wilkes and thank you for not trying to persuade me to stay.”

  “I pride myself on recognising a lost cause.”

  “I’m not going to stir up a whole hornet’s nest before I go but I’ll say one thing. There was more to Stephen than a nervous wreck who woke the house at night with his bad dreams. That’s only one aspect of the man. He is capable of passion too.” She drew on her cigarette and looked all of the femme fatale for a moment. Maybe she was enjoying this. Henry’s thinking shifted a little.

  “You sound as though you knew him in the past. In London, maybe?”

  Inspiration struck. She looked annoyed, then shrugged and stubbed out her cigarette in a shell posing as an ashtray—a cheap thing for a house like this. “I encountered Stephen, yes. I worked for the clergy there too. Don’t make life easy for myself, do I?”

  She smiled and waved her hand at the smoke from her cigarette. I worked as housekeeper and general assistant at St Gabriel’s Priory. The place is still there, as far as I know. A very different set-up than this rural retreat. It is a retreat here, in all senses of the word. Wouldn’t you say?” Henry shrugged, caught himself up. Her nonchalance was infecting him. “I suppose it is. Yes. A peaceful part of the country.”

  “Until someone gets bashed on the head.”

  “Well, yes.” Damn the woman. She was like a cat with a mouse.

  “Anyway. Yes. St Gabriel’s. Run by a leading evangelical priest.

  Father Victor Saville. Have you heard of him?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’d remember him if you had encountered him, Reverend Wilkes.

  A powerful presence. He attracted troubled people, particularly troubled priests. Stephen was one of them.” She called him Stephen.

  “You were close?”

  “Dear, me. Reverend Wilkes. No need to be so mealy-mouthed about it. As I said, Stephen was…is a passionate man. We spent some time together. It wasn’t well-received, as you might imagine.

  There was only one person allowed to bring solace to the troubled souls who came to St Gabriel’s and it wasn’t the housekeeper. I left shortly afterwards. And, here I am, moving on once more.

  It’s always the woman who emerges the loser in this situation.

  Don’t you find?”

  There was a flaw in her thinking. No-one was forcing her out of St Chad’s as far as Henry could see. He didn’t point it out to her. People lived with their own version of events and she had

  cast herself as a victim. What he really did want to ask her was about David Fallon but he lost the courage when it came right down to it.

  He had a feeling that talking about Fallon would be a step too far.

  Ivy Miller carried a couple of buff files, holding them close to her thin body as though for a sort of bleak comfort. The stairs up from the kitchen were narrow. No-one thought of the comfort of servants when this house had been designed.

  “Have you been to see Mrs Elliott?”

  “I have.” He wasn’t sure what else to say. Not that he had been asked to keep Fiona Elliot’s notice secret but neither did he want to be adding to the heightened tension at St Chad’s. But, of course, she knew.

  “It’s absolutely dreadful that Mrs Elliot is going to leave. I’ve tried to persuade her not to be hasty. She has Jerome to think about and all this unpleasantness will pass. I think she’s making a mistake and I’m trying my best to dissuade her.”

  “You’re right, Miss Miller. I’m sure this will pass. Maybe, Mrs Elliot has her own reasons to move on though…and what has happened has just brought them to the fore.”

  “No such thing, Reverend Wilkes. Fiona wouldn’t dream of leaving were it not for the unpleasantness she has had to suffer from men who should know better. Men of the cloth. You do expect much better behaviour.” She had returned to the theme of Fiona Elliott being the victim of unwanted male advances. But, as Henry left her and went to the chapel, he was far from sure.

  Fiona Elliot was a difficult woman to work out but she didn’t strike him as anyone’s victim.

  It was the last straw—to be played for fools by Josh Braithwaite.

  That’s what he was doing. Inspector Greene’s reaction could sometimes surprise Brown. Maybe that was because he frequently expected a worse reaction than the one he got.

  “Well, he’s given us some work to do, some running around and wasting time and resources but if the lad can be brought home safely, happen that’s not the end of the world.” How could his boss see it like that? Brown had a pretty even temper. He had been told that he followed his father’s family in that direction.

  Generations of yeomen and lay preachers. But, the bare-faced audacity of Josh Braithwaite riled him to the point of a just-suppressed rage. He felt like chasing the man, through the countryside, not too difficult as Braithwaite had been driving an

  old Austin, and giving him what-for and demanding to know where young John was.

  He’d get in trouble for doing so, no doubt about it and he might even delay the lad’s return to his mother but it would be almost worth it to wipe the arrogant smirk off the man’s face. There was no harm in asking a few questions, using his initiative. He got up quickly from the table and barely answered his mother’s question about where he was going.

  Staffordshire

  “Canon, no, I said no, I’m not coming to the orchard with you.

  I’m on my way to chapel. We can go to the orchard afterwards.

  Look, why don’t you come with me?” Maybe the calm, familiar setting of the chapel would soothe the old man. Though his thoughts about him had altered, Henry still found the canon irritating. That, in turn, made Henry feel bad about himself and his lack of patience.

  “Look, Reverend…look…” It was clear that Henry’s name escaped Canon Richardson. “You must come with me.” It was with very bad grace that Henry went across the terrace and down the gravel path, which soon gave way to a softer, more natural path, the scrunch beneath their feet changing to the springiness of earth that had been slightly softened by recent summer evening rain.

  A strong smell hit Henry. An unpleasant pungent smell that he recognised but could not name. It was then that his heart began to beat hard, reminding him of the time his brother-in-law had ended up in hospital because of what was referred to as a”funny-do.” It had looked like a heart attack but had proved not to be.

  They had never got to the bottom of that. Why was he feeling so on edge now and why were his thoughts taking such a random turn?

  The canon was slightly ahead of Henry. Now that he had persuaded Henry to go with him, he was set upon whatever he was determined to show Henry.

  The older man didn’t speak. He slowed down almost causing Henry to walk into him. For a few seconds he seemed to lose his bearings and a vacant look came into his eyes. It was as though he had forgotten what they were supposed to be looking for. Then, as though hearing something that was out of Henry’s range, he picked up his head and headed their left, past a dilapidated summer house with chipped blue paint and missing panes of glass.

  “Look, this is where I found him. I told you there was danger I told you all but none of you would listen. Look. See.”

  Heat flooded into Henry’s face and his collar suddenly felt tight. He stooped and went down on his knees next to the slumped figure. He had fallen where he’d been shot. A spread of blood drenched the area around the grey clerical jacket and a wider

  circle around it. Henry knew a gunshot wound when he saw it and he knew instantly the identity of the man.

  “Oh, my God.”

  David Fallon’s perfectly symmetrical face was partially turned away. The eyes were open confirming that life had departed. Anger almost overwhelmed Henry and he had to hold himself back from shouting at the canon who was wittering on about people not listening to him and ab
out danger.

  “Can you go back to the house, now, Canon. Straightaway. Get Brother Malcolm or someone to come back here with you.” No point in telling him to contact the police or call for an ambulance. He had to keep his instructions simple and even then, there were no guarantees that the canon would follow orders.

  “That’s what I did. I came and fetched you and you nearly didn’t come, did you? Fobbing me off like everyone else even when I’m telling you all that there are bad things in the house. That my life has been threatened.”

  Henry should be saying the prayers for the dying into David Fallon’s ear. Not fighting the anger, and yes, all right, the guilt he felt. It was true, he nearly hadn’t come back here with the canon.

  “Just go. Please, Canon. The poor man shouldn’t be left alone.”

  More guilt. He hadn’t had any time for David Fallon, in life.

  The canon went after he told him again. Keeping it really simple.

  Not getting into the whys and wherefores of how the canon’s warnings had been ignored.

  Henry whispered the simple and sacred words into David Fallon’s unhearing ear. He pointlessly checked for a pulse. Felt damp penetrate the knees of his trousers. When he stood up, the ache in his back, across his shoulders made him stagger for a few seconds. That and the strength of the sun which had emerged from the summer clouds, as hot as though the rain hadn’t happened.

  Henry suddenly identified the smell that had made his eyes water on his way here. It was the smell of a dog fox. The smell that sometimes clung to Max when he’d been rolling in the grass on one of their walks. There was a faint tang of something else over-laying it. The smell of a discharged revolver. Disappearing from the air, even as he thought what it was.

  David Fallon who had infuriated Henry was dead. Someone had shot him in cold blood—that’s how people always put it, for some reason. Cold blood. Fallon’s blood would still be warm.

  For Henry, the world went dark for a moment and the cold shiver that went through him was more than the sun going behind the