“‘No!’ she protested, and stood in front of the corpse with her arms outspread, as if to protect him from me.
“‘The flesh is rotting, Gracie! The innards are expanding and bursting open!’
“‘No! He be lovely! Lovely!’
“‘He's dead, Gracie,’ I told her. ‘Rotting food for rats and maggots. He needs to be put in the ground.’
“‘No, he don't!’
“‘Aye, he does! He stinks. He's nowt but a nasty, rotting corpse and he must be got rid of. Why won't tha understand, tha silly bint?’
“‘No!’ Gracie said. She were crying now. And panicking. She ran out of the room and towards the kitchen, calling for Wilcox. ‘Mr Wilcox, please! Don't let her! Don't let her bury Master Roger!’
“Well, I followed her out of the room and I spoke to Wilcox and told him everything. And he agreed with me. ‘twas madness. Shameful. We had to bury that body decently, with no time to waste.
“So that afternoon, while we were up in Mrs Thornton’s room, trying to persuade her to let go of her son, Gracie took a wheelbarrow from the stables, lifted Master Roger’s body into it and ran off with the corpse. We searched for them all day. We went into every room, scoured the garden, the sheds, the stables, and when we hadn’t found them by nightfall we enlisted the help of Yeardley and some of the labourers. They discovered Gracie the following morn, in the old stable by the stream, cradling Master Roger’s corpse in her arms, singing and muttering like an idiot.”
Martha and Billings both fell quiet for a while. Then Martha heaved herself to her feet and picked up the bowl of uneaten gruel from the table.
“So there tha has it, Mr Billings. That’s what happened. Gracie Brickenborough, the mad bitch, stole Master Roger's body because she couldn't bear to see it buried! Tha can go back to London now, can’t tha?”
“Yes.”
“And leave us in peace.”
“Yes.”
“’Cos there won't be much love felt for us in the village when this story comes out. We'll be needing our peace then.”
Epilogue
Billings was sitting upright on his bed. His satchel was fully packed and standing on the floor at his feet. His face was clean-shaven, hair combed, and his jacket had been brushed and neatened. The bed had been stripped and the sheets and blankets folded. Billings had even troubled to sweep the floor and fireplace.
Hearing a carriage driving over the gravel outside, he took his watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time. It was six o’clock. Yeardley was early. Billings could hear the butler stepping out of the house and greeting him. Then hurried footsteps approached along the corridor.
There was a knock on the door.
“Yes?”
It opened and the butler stuck his head into the room.
“Yeardley has arrived, Mr Billings,” he said, looking relieved that the guest was ready to depart. “Do you need any help with your bag?”
“No, thank you, Mr Wilcox. I can manage.”
Billings rose, picked up his satchel and followed Wilcox out of the room.
They walked silently down the corridor towards the hallway. The old man was walking a few steps ahead. Billings had noticed a marked change in him since Martha’s revelations of the previous day. Gone was the chatty, over-friendly servant he had seen relaxing in his parlour. This was a cold, rigid, reserved man. Nothing of any significance had been said between them after Billings had mentioned to Wilcox that he had all the information he needed and was ready to depart. The butler had merely inclined his head and agreed to make arrangements for Yeardley to drive the detective to the nearest station. Did he know that Martha had spilled the beans? Of course he did. And could he have felt the faintest trace of relief at knowing that the truth was finally out? There were no signs of it.
Mrs Thornton was waiting for them on the great staircase as they appeared in the hallway.
“You’re finally leaving us then?” she called.
Billings turned to face her, a little surprised. He hadn’t expected to see her again.
“I am,” he replied, bowing his head.
“Got what you came for, did you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I did.”
“A lurid tale of the depraved north to scandalise your London colleagues with?”
“That's not what I came for.”
“Oh, stop being so sanctimonious!”
“Cases like this have to be investigated, Mrs Thornton. So that we may learn from them.”
“Learn? This isn't learning. This is gossiping. This is gloating. This is spite. I suppose the press will publish the story again.”
“I suppose they will.”
“The whole of the country will read about how my son's corpse was molested by that imbecile housemaid, and will enjoy shaking their heads in disgust and wincing and tutting!”
“You have a low of opinion of the public.”
“You have left us all exposed to their censure, Mr Billings, that's what you've done, with no means of covering up the truth and protecting ourselves. I could have pretended that my son had died differently. I'd have been able to handle it then. But the truth will be published now, won't it? So that the world and his dog can dwell on each last sordid detail.”
Billings didn’t know how to respond to this. It was true. The putrid wound had been exposed and reinfection was inevitable.
“Thank you on behalf of Scotland Yard for your generous hospitality,” he said as he took his hat from the stand and bowed to her in farewell.
“You are an old woman, Detective Sergeant! That's all you are to me!” she cried as Billings followed the butler out of the house. “An old woman sitting by the guillotine amusing herself by watching the heads of aristocrats tumble into the basket. I hope your mother is proud of you!”
Billings did not react. He walked towards the cart, put his satchel in it and climbed up to sit beside the driver without looking back.
“Back off to London then, art tha, Inspector?” said Yeardley as they rode over the moors to Grosmont.
“Yes.”
“Completed tha sniffing about, has tha? Got all the facts?”
“Yes, I have the facts.”
“There's many in t’village who're wondering just what went on in that house. I expect they’ll be able to read about it in the papers soon.”
“I expect they will.”
“I won’t be reading it, though.”
“Will you not, Mr Yeardley?”
“I'm not one to stick my nose into other folk's business, Mr Billings.”
“Well, it’s my job.”
“Proud of that, art tha?”
Billings was well aware of the accusation in the other man’s tone and paused momentarily before replying.
“Sometimes, Mr Yeardley, people need others to poke their noses in.”
“How’s that, then?”
“This is an isolated place and isolation can do queer things to the mind. Sometimes we need other people to anchor us. Stop us from straying too far into the byways of our own minds and fancies. To prevent our inner demons from taking over and running riot.”
“Inner demons, is it? Well, I’m sure tha knows more about them than I does.”
“I do,” said Billings as he pulled up his collar and sank deep into the welcoming warmth of his coat. “I most certainly do.”
DS Billings Victorian Mysteries
'Death Takes a Lover' is the first in a series of Victorian mysteries featuring DS Billings - a gay, Quaker detective with a morphine addiction.
Coming soon:‘The Ornamental Hermit’
http://www.olivierbosman.com/
The Muchacha Series
A series of novellas depicting the life of Hans and Annie, a young Dutch couple who emigrate to Colombia in the 1970's.
The first thing Hans and Annie are told to do when they arrive in Colombia is to get themselves a maid. They go through a succession of domestic servants in the course of five years. Each novella
bears the name of the maid they had working for them at the time. Through a series of poignant and bittersweet observations we witness the slow deterioration of their relationship; their struggle to settle into life amongst a snobbish and claustrophobic group of ex-pats; and their never ending quest to find themselves a good and reliable maid.
Coming soon: Muchacha part 1:Berta
http://www.olivierbosman.com/
Death Takes A Lover (DS Billings Victorian Mysteries) Page 9