When Winnie returned from the kitchen, she was carrying a tray of hot drinks, and a much-coveted plate of homemade biscuits. With a proud nod towards Josie, Winnie carried on. ‘She bakes all her own bread, cakes and biscuits, y’know, and makes her own jam and pickles. She also grows her vegetables and flowers, and at one time she’d have wrung the necks of those chickens in the coop. Puts me to shame, she does.’
Annie awkwardly took from the tray a small bone-china cup which rattled upon its saucer. The look on her face told the others she was terrified of breaking it.
Winnie chuckled at the young detective’s grimace, ‘It’s not as delicate as you think.’
‘Indeed, it’s made from cattle bone,’ Josie said, sitting down opposite Annie with a groan, and a moan about her ailing bones.
Annie took a sideways glance at Charley. Her expression turned quickly to one of suspicion. She looked from one woman to another, finally settling on Winnie’s face. ‘You’re winding me up, right?’
‘No, no, I promise you. It’s true,’ Josie said. ‘That’s why it’s called bone china.’
The older ladies exchanged local news for a while, but the lighthearted atmosphere soon shifted as Charley explained the reason for their visit. It soon became apparent to Charley that without Winnie’s interaction, Josie Cartwright would not be talking to them, nor to anyone else about Crownest. When Charley started to share with Josie the information regarding the discovery of the bodies and the reason that she needed her help, the old lady paled, her eyes clouded over and her questioning eyes fell upon Winnie. With lips slightly parted she took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t talk about it,’ she said. ‘Not even for you, Win.’
Winnie reached for Josie’s hands and, with great gentleness, she sandwiched them between hers. ‘Hear her out. It’s okay, you can trust Charley. She’s Jack’s girl. You remember Jack Mann?’
Puzzled, and slightly disorientated it appeared, Josie’s look remained suspicious. Winnie nodded her head reassuringly. ‘It’s time…’
Chapter 19
‘The official records show the Alderman family resided at Crownest for many years, as you are probably more than aware. However, what you might not know is that Agnes, the mother of the present sexton of St Anne’s Church, was the woman locals sought for bringing babies into this world, and for laying out the dead.’
The news about the old midwife was nothing new to Charley, but the next bit of information that Josie shared made her ears prick up.
‘Seth’s wife, Lucinda Alderman, it is rumoured, was with child when she was bundled off to Australia to a place of safety with her friend Catherine, her sister-in-law, by Father Michael O’Doherty, the then-priest at St Anne’s.
‘At the loss of his wife and heir, Seth was said to be beside himself with grief and he took his own life. There couldn’t be a more poignant place for his death other than at the door of the tunnel that he’d insisted be bricked up in order to save his wife returning to Crownest and falling victim to his increasingly dark moods, caused by his drink and drug dependency.
‘Again, owing to the distance of time, the paper trail goes cold, and we know nothing more, for sure, about what happened to Lucinda and her child, or to Catherine Alderman. I guess Catherine may have married and taken her husband’s name, and Lucinda might have done the same, and remarried in Australia.’ Josie was silent for a few minutes, appearing to collect her thoughts.
Eager to hear more, Charley urged her on.
‘So what more do we know about Agnes, Lily Pritchard’s mother? How does she come into the tale?’
‘Only that she was a bit of a rebel. And a local oddity.’
‘Like mother, like daughter,’ she whispered to Winnie.
‘She was?’ said Charley, ‘In what way?’
‘Oh, it is said that she flatly refused to follow the religious ways of her husband, a devout Catholic, who married the young girl solely to keep her out of the poor house, thereby forsaking his calling to become a priest. And, would you believe, she then rewarded him by refusing to join him in his faith and worship. Against his will, and after several failed attempts to keep Agnes away from other men, she formed a meaningful relationship with the local blacksmith, Atherton. She was caught lying with him and he was banished from the village. A couple of days later he was found dead. The official recording of his death tells us of a tragic accident.’
‘That sounds mighty suspicious,’ stated Annie.
‘One might think so, yes. Apparently he was kicked in the head by a horse he was shoeing, on farmland owned by the church. However, his demise, for obvious reasons, didn’t sit comfortably with some of the village folk who said he was far too experienced for that to have happened. That said, so embarrassed by his wife’s behaviour, but unwilling to disown her, Agnes’s husband, Walter Pritchard became increasingly tormented by his religious beliefs and some said, by his possible role in Atherton’s untimely demise. It appears that the church and its ways became a sort of prison for Walter. He was found collapsed at the altar in St Anne’s Church, soon after Atherton’s accident, stone-cold dead. Heart failure some said, a broken heart said others.’
At the chiming of the clock, Josie stirred and looked at her watch. ‘Now, you must have better things to do than listen to the ramblings of an old woman.’
Charley shook her head. ‘No, not at all, I for one could listen to you all day. Tell me about the priest who helped Lucinda and Catherine, Father Michael O’Doherty.’
‘Michael was a wonderful man, but I suspect he spent most of his latter years praying for guidance, owing to the other colourful characters around him.’
Winnie looked puzzled. ‘Well, yes, I guess he must ’ave either been naive or stupid not to know what was happening around him.’
Josie’s mouth rose at one corner. ‘Quite the Miss Marple, Win! It is said that Connor O’Doherty, his nephew, was thick as thieves with Seth Alderman. The church, along with the Alderman’s wealth and support, dictated what the villagers could do. Rumour has it that after Father Michael O’Doherty’s death, it seemed a natural thing for next in line Connor O’Doherty to be ordained as the head of St Anne’s Church, which was then said to be more alive by night than day.’ Josie frowned. ‘Have you spoken to Lily Pritchard?’
Charley’s eyebrows rose. ‘Only briefly, but there was nothing mentioned about Father Connor…’
Josie leaned forward, as if to share a secret. ‘Ask her about the candle she held for him, back then.’
‘You were friends with Lily back then?’ asked Charley.
‘We were the best of friends, back then… But, that was a long, long time ago. Another lifetime it seems.’
‘You wouldn’t know where we could get hold of any photographs of the people we are talking about? It always helps to have visuals.’
Josie’s drawn, thoughtful face told Charley that she was beginning to tire. ‘I recall Lily showing me her treasure trove once. It was an old tin box, and, let me tell you, to a seven-year-old, it was veritable treasure. She said it belonged to Father Connor. She allowed me a peek inside. There were heaps of pictures, old black-and-white photographs – not very interesting to someone expecting precious metals, and jewels.’ Josie smiled, then her face suddenly clouded over. ‘Although on the dark side, I understand now that Connor had a taste for voyeurism, and he encouraged Agnes, Lily’s mother, to take lovers and then spied on her exploits. I heard Agnes slept with at least two dozen men, but it was all to please the priest, with his unusual tastes in – or rather, looking into – the bedroom. However, with an adult’s understanding, Lily may have destroyed the indecent images of course. Who would want to taint the memory of their mother and the local priest?’
The light was fading, but no one appeared to notice other than Winnie, who rose, without invitation to switch on the lamps, and returned in a zigzag path, back and forth to the window, where, with a familiarity, she pulled the curtains together and shut the night out.
‘I
presume that both the priests are buried in the graveyard at St Anne’s Church?’ said Charley.
‘Yes,’ nodded Josie. ‘The O’Doherty’s graves are side by side; they have large headstones and Lily always kept them tidy. You shouldn’t have any trouble locating them.’
Charley took out the evidence bag that contained the small ring they had discovered with the skeletal remains, and showed it to Josie.
Josie strained her eyes, in the dimmed light. ‘Put on the big light will you, Win?’ she said.
Annie chuckled. ‘Big light! I love that Yorkshire expression.’
‘Well that’s what it is, the biggest light in the room, isn’t it?’ said Winnie. ‘Don’t make things more complicated than we need to, us Yorkshire folk.’
‘It’s a wedding ring.’
‘A wedding ring? Why would a pagan wear a wedding ring? I thought they were non-believers?’ said Annie.
‘The ancient pagan Romans were more likely responsible for beginning the common use of engagement and wedding rings,’ said Josie.
Annie’s eyes were wide. ‘Really?’
‘They wore the ring on the fourth finger of the left hand because they believed that a vein from this finger, the vena amoris, runs directly to the heart,’ said Josie.
With a serious face, Charley looked Josie in the eye. ‘Do you think that it is possible that Seth banished Catherine to Australia because he was jealous of hers and Lucinda’s relationship?’ Then in a low voice she continued. ‘Or do you think Catherine, or Lucinda, could be our corpse in the cellar?’ Charley frowned, ‘But if it is Lucinda, whatever happened to the child?’
The look on the old lady’s face told Charley that nothing should be ruled out. ‘Who knows… Seth was a very complex character. The depths of his emotions and feelings knew no bounds, or so we are led to believe. Who else would dig a tunnel with his bare hands? Then when he felt he was a danger to his wife, order the door to be bricked up so that he could do her no harm?’
‘It doesn’t sound like the actions of a man who is sound of mind, does it?’ said Annie. ‘It sounds more like the actions of a schizophrenic.’
‘How’d you know about the tunnel?’ said Charley to Josie.
‘I played in it as a child with Lily. Hide and seek was great fun in that big house.’ Josie paused. ‘You see so much has been written, and more rumoured about the Aldermans and Crownest, that we simply don’t know what is true and what is false, and probably never will.’ Josie swallowed hard. ‘What I do know from my research is that Agnes, the local midwife, was a pagan. She was a stunning woman, with the face of an angel in her youth I heard my father say, on more than one occasion.’
‘Do you know if Agnes had any children, other than Lily? There would be no contraception available in those days and it seems strange if she was as sexually active as has been suggested, that her dalliances only resulted in one pregnancy.’ said Annie.
There was a long pause in which Josie yawned, ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think that’s something that you should ask Lily.’
‘I think we should be going,’ said Winnie after a few moments. She stood up and put a hand on Josie’s shoulder. ‘Enough is enough for one day, my dear friend, eh?’
Josie nodded her head in agreement, grateful it seemed, for the fact that Winnie knew her well. She was tired, very tired, and more than that, she felt emotionally drained.
* * *
The journey home was hazardous, as much to do with the meandering of the country roads, as to the darkness and rain which did not help on the unlit roads. The conditions did not allow Charley’s concentration to drop enough to process the chat with Josie properly, never mind talk, so much of the chatter was between Winnie and Annie. When they dropped Winnie off outside her house, with a hug and a cheery ‘see you tomorrow,’ the car seemed very quiet for a while.
Annie was unusually quiet, as if in thought. ‘Could our body in the cellar be Agnes, do you think?’
‘But why would she be buried at Crownest, and surely Lily would know whether her mother had died or gone missing?’
‘As well as being a midwife, Agnes also laid out the dead… It could be Catherine. Maybe she never did get to Australia?’
‘But, if it was Catherine, then why would Lucinda be sent for safe-keeping by the kindly Father Michael to Australia to join her? He must have had contact with Catherine when she arrived in Australia to set up Lucinda’s passage.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. We’re going to have to keep an open mind. I’m going to send Mike with you to interview Lily tomorrow. We need to prepare an interview strategy. I’d like to know the time that St Anne’s Church priests spent in the locality, and as much background information that is known about the church, and its inhabitants during the time of the Aldermans. We also need to inform Lily of our intention to see what lies beneath Seth’s grave.’
‘I was involved in an investigation dealing with paedophile priests,’ said Annie after a while. Her voice was flat and unfeeling.
Charley’s concentration on the wet road surface was such that she didn’t see the tear that trickled down Annie’s cheek. ‘Child abuse is unpleasant. All children deserve to have a safe and happy childhood,’ she replied.
‘The priests had been touching young boys, and taking lewd pictures of them. Of course they denied everything, but eventually years later they were found guilty, and sentenced, and I hope they will never ever be released,’ Annie said.
‘Even now, it sometimes takes years for the perpetrators to be found guilty,’ said Charley stealing a glance across at Annie, whose head was turned to look out the window.
‘Yes, but not before Ashton Gloveria committed suicide.’
Charley turned and eyeballed Annie. ‘You knew Ashton Gloveria? I was in the Old Bailey when the case was being heard…’
‘He was my brother.’
‘He was your brother? But, you’re called Glov…?’
Chapter 20
It seemed to Charley that the Crownest murders had taken over her life, and engulfed her remit as the SIO, to the extent that she was forced to fight a growing sense of loneliness and vulnerability, as days turned into weeks, and still there was no sign of a resolution. The pressure from the hierarchy to get the cases solved owing to increasing costs and use of resources didn’t help. At times she struggled to keep her composure. Her day-to-day functions were unaffected; the difficulty was caused by the disorientation brought on by the need for results and the number of unanswered questions. As she went over the evidence again, and visited the mortuary again, her sense of smell begged for something other than the stench of death, and to touch something other than through plastic gloves. Ultimately there was only one sense she could depend on, and one that she had become increasingly reliant on – her gut feeling.
Sitting quietly at her desk a week later, whilst the others were about their duties, Charley became aware of the hypnotic whisper of the wind swirling around the building. She closed her eyes and fancied she felt the breeze upon her face and hair. The urgent need to be in the saddle became overwhelming. Charley ached to feel the familiar vibration of horses’ hooves thud upon the ground beneath her, and the gentle tug on reins slipping through her fingers as she galloped across the moors.
Anxiety rose from deep within. She simply had to get away.
Fleeing from the office, with her coat over her arm, a dismissive wave of her hand, and ‘I’m on my mobile if you need me,’ Charley’s speedy exit was curtailed within a few steps of the CID office door, where she was confronted in the corridor by Ruth and Flora. Ruth smiled; a smile that suggested happiness. It was a fact that the typist and her guide dog had a formidable relationship, and Charley felt a pang of jealousy.
Charley concluded that everyone needed someone to go to at times like these.
* * *
Driving on the open road, where her mind was not required for any purpose other than to cruise, there was a moment when she came to realise that, although she had colleagu
es and acquaintances, she had very few friends; people she could confide in and trust implicitly. In fact apart from Kristine, her childhood friend, and fellow police officer, she had no one.
How she ended up at the stables, given the gloom that consumed her brain Charley had no idea, but she was glad she had. The farmhouse was deserted, so it was obvious to her that Kristine was at work, at the police station. In Charley’s experience, shift work did not help relationships, although it appeared that people who worked in the emergency services needed to form a solid understanding amongst family and friends if their relationships were to have longevity.
On the positive side, Wilson, her favoured ex-police-horse at the yard, greeted her with a gentle grasp of his lips. Charley smiled, and scratched the bay’s neck which Wilson stretched out, allowing him to shove his nose in her face to ‘lip’ her.
Playfully he laid his ears back and showed his teeth, his eyes as plain as the writing on the wall. ‘Cupboard love mister,’ she laughed. ‘You’re not after a kiss, you’re looking for treats.’
Wilson nudged her several times before she reached deep inside her pocket and retrieved a packet of Polo mints. He showed her his equine happy face.
As Charley rode out of the stable yard along the single dirt track peppered with mud-holes, she felt an exhilarating sense of freedom. With a deep sense of trust for the horse, she allowed Wilson his head. For a short while they traversed the fringe of the copse, past the beech trees, continuing along the well-trodden path. She saw the trees thickening further, forming a tunnel, arching together to blot out the sky. The dense light was just enough to navigate the gloom.
Eventually, and not a minute too soon, they left the depressing, grey-brown behind them and welcomed the thinning of the trees which heralded the green lushness of the windswept Yorkshire moor ahead. Charley heard the wind in the distance hissing through the long grass, and it made her heart swell.
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