Swallow Hall Murder

by Noreen Wainwright

  “And your husband?” Greene asked.

  “As I say, a broken man. He wasn’t a criminal, Inspector. Mother was right in a perverse way. He was weak. Not wickedly weak as she implied, though. Just weak. He had a terrible time of it in prison. Nobody hurt him or anything like that, but he couldn’t deal with it any of it. Most especially, he couldn’t deal with the shame. We moved away from the area, but even that wasn’t enough.”

  Brown saw it in his mind. A man with no friends left, no standing and no job. A man, no longer young. It would have been terrible.

  “I tried to encourage him to get a job, anything. Not that it would have been easy. I mean. He was a struck off solicitor in his late fifties; too old to do anything else and with a prison sentence behind him.”

  Brown had an inkling where this was heading.

  “What happened to your husband?”

  “He had a heart attack and died, Inspector. There’s not a shred of doubt in my mind that what had happened precipitated it. Simply, he didn’t recover. As I said, it wasn’t possible for him to go in a new direction.”

  And her mother could have prevented all of this.

  Again, you had to wonder at the fact that no-one had killed old Mrs. Turner on her grounds rather than Sean Bracken. Yet again, they were back at this frustration; the lack of a motive or a proper connection between the inhabitants of this house and the dead man. There was one connection, of course.

  “Your daughter’s connection with Sean Bracken?”

  She shrugged, a quick, impatient gesture. “What do you want me to say, Inspector? I mean, really, what do you want me to say?”

  No one said anything, and again the ticking of the clock became like another entity in the room.

  “Very well,” Kate Beech said. “I would have preferred to see my daughter properly settled again with a new husband, maybe children. I couldn’t understand why she would waste what remained of her relative youth on a man who clearly had no serious intent towards her.”

  You couldn’t blame her, and Brown was thankful the inspector didn’t push her about how she knew of Bracken’s lack of serious intent. It was self-evident.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Canada? Why Canada?”

  Edith knew what Archie’s reply was going to be before he uttered the words.

  “Why not Canada?”

  She gave an angry little laugh. Why was she angry? She needed time to think about it, but the unpleasant falling sensation in her stomach had shown her true reaction to the thought of Archie doing this. All the talking and reasoning in the world wouldn’t change that instant reaction.

  “I don’t feel that I have anything much to stay in England for, Edith. There’s you, and there’s Aunt Alicia, and that’s about it. She has you, and you have Henry.”

  There was a stupid heaviness of tears at the base of her throat. Was his decision because she was leaving the practice and getting married, moving on with her life? No, that was stupid and egotistical.

  “Have you been thinking about this for a while?”

  “I think I have, in a half-baked way. One of the men at the last reunion talked of another fellow, by the name of Harry Dacres who moved out there a couple of years ago—now works in British Columbia. It’s a young country, Edith, wide open spaces.” He grinned. “Sorry, now I’m talking like one of those things.” He gestured at the leaflets which now lay on the coffee table between them.

  “Have you really decided?”

  “Not completely, and now there’s the complication of maybe having a dodgy ticker.”

  “At least you haven’t had a heart attack.”

  “No, maybe it’s a warning, and maybe it confirms what I was already thinking; that I need a change.”

  “A huge one.”

  “It is, and before you say it, I know I’m the wrong age. The time to make this sort of move is when you are about twenty. But…”

  “The war. I wasn’t ready to do this sort of thing straight after. It wasn’t even in my mind. Brigid… taking over here...all of that.”

  “Can I mention this to Henry?”

  “Yes, but will you tell him to keep it to himself for now? The last thing I need is for patients to come up to me and start asking questions.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She needed to take herself out for a while. A walk with Max. Call to see Henry. Just get away from her brother, and think about this. Also, she was in danger of getting upset, and she didn’t want to do that. It was good that he was making a decision for himself, not feeling that he needed to look after her.

  The air was cold, a keen wind making her walk quickly. The trouble was, for all Max’s wonderful and loving qualities, a good walking-dog wasn’t one of them. He was forever snuffling in the hedges and ditches, and she was forever tugging at his lead.

  She’d go and see Henry, but later. For now, she needed the wind in her face and the ultimately soothing rhythm of her feet on the ground. Archie had been troubled for a long time. Grumpy and irascible at times. She’d been so wrapped up in her own mental problems, her tentative relationship with Henry, the on-off nature of it. Archie had been a background presence somehow. She smiled and tugged again at Max. Now, there was a thought she’d never had before. Her brother as a background presence. The smile didn’t change the anxiety knotting her stomach and making her breath shallow. Change. She’d lived long enough to have learned it was inevitable, but it was also true that the older she got, the more she hated it.

  * * *

  Well, I’m following orders. Inspector Greene hadn’t barred him from frequenting the Dalesman, but he’d made it clear he frowned upon it.

  “One of the first lessons in this job, lad, is that you’re no longer one of the boys.”

  Brown’s stomach had dropped into his boots at the words. He recognised the truth in it, but to have it spelt out like that was grim.

  “You’re a policeman first and second, and you can never afford to forget it.”

  Brown wondered if young Robinson would get the spiel. He probably wouldn’t need to be told.

  “You can’t have friends amongst the locals.”

  It got worse.

  “That’s why you have police pubs and clubs. They meet a need. You’re human, we all are, and you do need to socialise. But it is very easy to become compromised. Careers have ended because of that sort of thing.”

  Brown wasn’t stupid; he could see the point his boss was making though he wasn’t half making heavy weather of it. It wasn’t a nice thought, though. He was young, and loved the camaraderie of the pub, a throwback maybe to the times he’d been taken by his father and uncles as a child and sat soaking up all the man talk, and dreaming of the day when he’d be one of them, joining in the joking and drinking - though something would need to change because the occasional taste he’d had of the bitter the men drank, was disgusting.

  He felt like a drink tonight, though. They’d had a day of it. That Kate Beech had set his teeth on edge, though the story about her husband had been downright sad. Imagine, too having to crawl back with your begging bowl to a woman who had treated you like that.

  “You have a face on you like a wet week in Scarborough,” his mother said, as he moved his sausage and mash around his plate.

  “Is it work?”

  He made a big effort and smiled.

  “I suppose. We’re not getting anywhere with Sean Bracken’s murder, and the inspector doesn’t seem like himself…” There was nothing else to say. Instinctively, he’d held back from mentioning the conversation he’d overheard that day in his boss’s office, and the other odd changes he’d thought he’d noticed in the man.

  “Go for a drink, you might meet up with some of your mates. Have a game of darts. Arrange to go out to a dance or summat. You’re a young lad. It shouldn’t be all work and sitting in here at night, watching me doing my knitting.”

  He’d gone out, thanking his stars for his mother. She could have been like that odd lot at S
wallow Hall, that old mother ruling the roost. His mother was a widow, and he was her only son, but she’d never interfered, only ever wanted the best for him. It was one good thing about the oddness you encountered on the job. It did make you appreciate the good things in your own life.

  The Three Horseshoes was an unpretentious country pub. Clean and homely, and frequented by locals. You did get the occasional hiker particularly in the summer months, but tonight it was quiet.

  It would have been really nice to be here with a girl. The thought came from nowhere, and he went off into a little fantasy about what she might drink, maybe a port and lemon or a gin and tonic. Maybe she’d be impressed by his job too.

  “Oh, bloody hell, no peace in Ellbeck or a ten-mile radius, it seems.”

  Brown looked towards the door. He’d already caught the icy draft when the door had opened and had wished whoever was coming in would get on with it.

  It was Hubert Billings, and he looked the worse for wear.

  Brown ignored the tippity-tippity flutter of his heart. Why should he be in the least bothered? He wasn’t on duty and had every right to be out for a drink. In reality, the night was spoilt, and if he didn’t have an almost full pint in front of him, he’d beggar off home. He had a feeling Hubert would come over to him as soon as he had his drink. The place was so damned quiet too, making it worse. They couldn’t ignore each other.

  “You expecting company?” Hubert Billings, as predicted, stood before him with the slight swagger of the partly-inebriated.

  “No,” Brown said.

  Billings sat heavily on the seat on the other side of the table. “So, how’s it going with finding out what happened to Bracken?”

  Brown sighed, and, his level of irritation rose. What did Billings expect? Chapter and verse on where the investigation had come so far?

  “We’re still making enquiries.”

  “Come on, Brown. Don’t keep your cards so close to your chest. I know you were up at the Hall again today, you and the inspector. Who did you talk to this time? Aunt Mary, Aunt Elizabeth?”

  Brown saw his eyes, sharp and realised with a plummet of his stomach that Billings wasn’t really inebriated. He’d had a drink, but he was in control of what he was saying. He was being belligerent too and provoking. The idea of coming in here tonight for a bit of peace and a change of scene was backfiring on him. The dales were too small sometimes.

  “You can’t really expect me to talk about my job, Mr. Billings. You wouldn’t appreciate it if I was going round talking about our interview with you, would you?”

  There were several seconds when it could have gone either way. He could almost hear the other man thinking. Then Billings laughed.

  “Fair enough; you have me there. But, here’s something for you to think on…Sean Bracken fancied a change, see. Off he was, and not too bothered whether he was leaving any broken hearts behind him, neither. But, you know what they say about a woman scorned. Or are you too young?”

  The tips of Brown’s ears grew hot, and he resigned himself to the flush which was spreading right across his face. You’d think he would have outgrown that schoolboy habit by now.

  “I’ll leave you to it.” Billings stood up and said something about a better pint at the Drover’s Arms to the landlord. But, it was light—banter, a line they’d exchanged many times before.

  Brown couldn’t shake off the feeling the older man had been toying with him, feeding him a line.

  * * *

  “Bet,” Greene called the name out as soon as he went through the front door, but he’d already recognised that the house was empty. Probably before he’d turned the key on the door, though that was hardly credible. He’d lived alone for years now, and he knew the feeling of it, coming back to a dormant house. He’d light the fire, usually and put the wireless on just to break the silence until the house settled back around him. Lonely? Had he been lonely? Maybe, but this was far worse.

  He checked the kitchen which was empty and tidy. A quick glance at the table in case she’d left a note. But, she hadn’t. The wall clock ticked and the curtains hadn’t been drawn so the dark night was present with him and menacing. He went quickly and closed them.

  A knotting panic, the like of which had only ever occurred twice before in his life caused his mouth to become dry. Maybe get a glass of water? Or fill the kettle. No. he must go upstairs. The outside, forbidding façade of Swallow Hall passed in front of his mind’s eye, for some unknown reason.

  “Get a grip of yourself,” he muttered. To counter whatever heebie-jeebies had suddenly overcome him, he clattered quickly and noisily up the stairs.

  He opened each door in turn; the main bedroom, the spare room which had now evolved into a second bedroom, and the small, square box room. All empty. Then he went into the bathroom, his mind not admitting what he dreaded finding, but his body betraying him, again, with the pounding of his stupid heart and the clammy sweat sticking the back of his shirt collar to his neck. The bathroom was empty.

  “Sod you, Bet,” he muttered as he went downstairs and filled the kettle. While he waited for it to boil, he went to the small sitting-room and the drinks cupboard.

  He was pretty stupid for a policeman, not having checked for the obvious signs, like a suitcase or her wardrobe. Really stupid as he hadn’t even noticed what she’d brought with her when she came. She’d been here, in situ when he came in from work that night. He hadn’t seen her coming, and because he hadn’t wanted to face reality over the last several days, he certainly hadn’t gone looking for evidence of how much stuff she’d brought with her.

  Whatever she’d done and wherever she’d gone, yet again, she’d played him for a fool, doing the last thing he’d have expected of her. The relief he might have expected to feel at her absence wasn’t there. He was worried as she’d probably meant him to be and distracted too, from the case he needed to concentrate on.

  * * *

  The night didn’t turn out too bad at all, despite the shaky start. Brown had another couple of pints and picked the paper up. Sometimes answers came to you when you were thinking about something else.

  Hubert had sought him out, he was pretty certain of that. He’d disliked Bracken and probably wanted Serena for himself. Bracken was a big obstacle to that. Bracken had been leaving Yorkshire, and it looked like he’d been intending to travel solo.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I feel responsible,” said Henry. She hoped he was joking, or at least half-joking.

  She’d ended up calling on him, and they were sitting in his unhomely kitchen drinking cocoa, with Max at her feet. They could be an old married couple except for the fact she was soaked through, as the heavens had opened towards the end of her walk. Henry was relishing a rare night in, with no meetings or other commitments, and was in his slippers and a holey old jumper.

  She’d reluctantly agreed to part with her raincoat so it could dry by the stove. She also had an eye on the kitchen clock, not wanting to be away from Archie for too long.

  “Edith.” Henry waved a hand in front of her face. “I’m joking, but I do hope this isn’t about us getting married and you leaving.”

  “No, from what he said, it’s been in Archie’s mind for quite some time. Maybe our announcement and his health scare has precipitated it, made him admit it, but this hasn’t come out of the blue.”

  “How do you feel about it?” Henry took her hand in his,

  “I don’t know. I was completely shocked, and Canada is an awfully long way away, but if it would make him happy… I worry that he’s left it too late as well. Change is a lot easier when you’re young.”

  “Let’s have something stronger than cocoa. This is a momentous day. And don’t be too sure about it being too late to make big decisions; I mean, look at us.”

  * * *

  “Ivy, calm down and tell me what’s happened.”

  Ivy paced around the kitchen, every so often moving her hands, straightening her apron, pushing her hair even tight
er into its Kirby grips, though the severity of her hair style was already giving her a headache.

  She knew she was behaving like a madwoman, but her blood was boiling. Hardly ever before in her life, certainly not since she left home and got away from her father had she ever felt anything like this.

  Sylvia put an arm around her. “Stop this, now, Ivy. Sit down, there by the stove. I’m not doing anything that can’t wait a while. Let me make a pot of tea and you must calm down. Do you hear me?”

  Sylvia’s voice came from far away, but then sounded louder, more real as Ivy fought to bring her attention back to the present moment.

  “Right, what did Vera Bishop say to upset you?”

  “The housekeeper at the Arbuthnot’s told her that Elizabeth Turner telephoned and told her that the new girl—me—who they were taking on was lazy, insubordinate and a thief. How dare she, Sylvia? There’s not one word of truth in it, in any of it. The worst of it was she’d wanted to speak to Mrs. Arbuthnot, herself, but she was away so she spoke to the housekeeper instead. How could that evil witch do that, Sylvia?” Dry, rapid sobs were coming from her.

  Sylvia put a cup of tea on a little table she dragged out from the pantry.

  “Drink that. It was a wicked thing to do, but I don’t know why we’re surprised, Ivy. You bested her by going and getting another job. She doesn’t like being beaten.”

  Ivy took a drink. It was hot and thankfully, Sylvia hadn’t put any sugar in it. She did sometimes if she thought you needed perking up, but Ivy hated the taste.

  “I have nothing in this world, Sylvia. I was brought up with nothing. I’ve only had the bare bit of education that I had to have.”

  Sylvia muttered about youth and health, but Ivy wasn’t in the mood to listen.

  “About the one thing I did have was my good name and that…that…bitch has just taken that away from me. I could kill her. I really could. Here she is surrounded by privilege, never known a poor day in her life, nor had to do a stroke of work neither, and just on a whim, she takes away all I have.” The shuddering sobs came again.