‘I saw you arrive in a motor.’
Harriet turned to see who had spoken. The girl was standing a few feet away, on the edge of the green. She was about Harriet’s height, her dark hair scraped back from a broad, cheerful face. Clever eyes. She was a little older than Harriet, perhaps fifteen. She wore a grey skirt and a white blouse with red collar.
‘I came with my auntie,’ Harriet said, feeling silly and young. ‘We’re on holiday.’
‘All right for some,’ the girl said, not unpleasantly.
Harriet did not know why she felt the need to explain herself. ‘I was in hospital with diphtheria and my auntie said I needed to convalesce.’ She took a bag of liquorice allsorts from her pocket and offered it. ‘I’m not infectious.’
The girl searched through for her favourite, but not in an obvious way. It was one that Harriet didn’t like, the flat liquorice covered with tiny pink sweet dots.
She popped it in her mouth. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Harriet. What’s yours?’
‘Beth, Beth Young.’
Harriet did not say her last name. It was a cause for argument. Her mother had married Bob and wanted them all to have the same name. Harriet liked Bob, but she also liked her own name. So why don’t I say it, she asked herself. It was in case she lost the argument, or gave in.
‘When you came along in your motor, did you anywhere on your travels see a boy of thirteen, hair same colour as mine, a likeness to me, and as tall? He might have been walking along the road.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh.’
‘Who is he?’
‘My brother. Him and me came here two weeks ago and they sent him to work on a farm. I was expecting him to be let off for the May Day celebration, but I don’t think he’ll come now.’
‘Well where’s the farm?’
‘They say it’s on the tops but I don’t know where. I went looking, but I got lost.’
‘Have you asked someone?’
‘Aye, but they say he’ll be settling in and leave him be.’ She sat down on the grass with a sigh. ‘I’ve been standing up all day, waiting to see him, looking up beyond the school, watching for a figure coming down the track. And I don’t even know if he’d come that way.’
Harriet sat down beside her. ‘Why were you brought here, and where did you come from?’
‘We come from Pendleton, in Lancashire. We were fetched by the blacksmith on his cart.’
‘Why?’
Beth stroked the grass, running her fingers back and forth. ‘Our mam died and our dad was away, so we were packed off here for work. I’m a doffer in’t mill.’ She gave a quick smile. ‘I’ve made pals. They’re off walking by’t river, or into Settle for first showing at picture house. But I stopped here thinking Martin might turn up. Martin’s my brother.’
‘It’s sad that your mam died.’
Beth stopped stroking the grass. ‘I know. It was appendicitis and they’re supposed to be able to do summat about it, if it’s caught in time.’ Her hand made a fist.
‘My dad died.’ It surprised Harriet to hear herself speak those words because usually she could not say it. She had never said it to the girls at the new school.
‘When?’
‘Three years ago.’
‘So you were how old?’
‘Ten.’
‘I was fourteen when Mam died, just a month ago. I’m fifteen now.’ Beth spat on her hand and held it out.
Harriet spat on her hand. They shook.
‘Which is your auntie?’ Beth asked.
Kate looked towards the group at the far side of the green. ‘She’s there with that old gentleman and Mr and Mrs Whatyoumacallthem.’
‘Trevelyans, from the big house.’ Beth looked from the group to Harriet and back. ‘She’s very smart, your auntie. You look a bit like her.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes you do.’
Harriet felt pleased. She wouldn’t mind being like Auntie Kate, having nice clothes and a motorcar and looking into things. She wondered where the doctor had got to. Her mother had told her that Kate and the doctor were keen on each other and that it would be grand to have a doctor in the family. Harriet must give them time to themselves to do a bit of courting and get on with it. Harriet had not yet worked out how she was supposed to give them time. Go to her room, perhaps. That would be all right. She liked that room.
Beth narrowed her clever eyes and stared at Harriet. ‘She’s posh, your auntie, and she’s with posh people.’
‘But she’s nice.’
‘I’m not saying she int. You’re alike, but you’re different aren’t you?’
Harriet was never quite sure what she was supposed to tell and what she should keep quiet about. Her mother had drilled her in what not to say, and now she could not quite remember. ‘If in doubt, keep your trap shut,’ her mother had instructed before she left. Harriet hardly knew this girl. Auntie Kate had said not to be blathering to all and sundry about her being a detective. But it wouldn’t hurt, would it, to say that her aunt was adopted at birth and grown up in a very different better off family and that they had never met her until a few years ago? All the same, Harriet thought of something else. ‘We lived in different places. My auntie was married to someone who didn’t come back from the war. He would have been my Uncle Gerald.’
It did not really answer Beth’s question but had the advantage of truth. Harriet also knew that it was searching for news of her husband who went missing in 1918 that turned Auntie Kate into a detective. She kept to herself that Kate had a ‘mother’ who was a lady and a high-ranking police officer father, even though Kate’s real mother was Harriet’s granny. The whole thing gave her a headache.
Fortunately, Beth was more interested in herself. She told Harriet about the small farm she once lived on and how her father always took it into his head to go travelling for work, leaving her mother, Beth and brother Martin to take care of the farm.
Beth looked so sad when she spoke about Martin. Kate almost said about Auntie Kate being a detective, but she held that back. ‘If he hasn’t turned up by tomorrow, your Martin, do you want me to help you look for him?’
Beth jumped to her feet and held out a hand to Harriet, pulling her up. ‘Thanks, but I think he’ll come tomorrow. I have a plan you see.’
Before Harriet could ask what kind of plan, Beth was walking them to the Village Institute. ‘There’s tea and buns, scones and all sorts, so we might as well. Mrs Holroyd is on’t cake stall. She’ll give us a couple of buns.’
‘Who’s Mrs Holroyd?’
‘My landlady. I live in a house on New Street, opposite the washing green.’
‘I’ll tell my auntie where I’m going. She might worry if she can’t see me.’
Harriet was glad that Auntie Kate excused herself from the group and came over to be with her, meaning that she did not have to barge in and interrupt. They moved across the green a little way.
‘I’ve made friends with a girl called Beth and we’re going into the Village Institute. Do you want to come? Beth’s landlady, Mrs Holroyd, is in charge of tea and buns.’
‘Mrs Holroyd?’ Auntie Kate’s eyes gave that sudden flicker that showed she had thought of some idea, but it was gone in an instant and another person might not have noticed. ‘Yes I’ll come with you.’
‘What is it?’ Harriet asked as they crossed the green. ‘What did that old man want from you?’
‘How do you know he wanted anything?’
‘I could tell from the way he was looking at you and how you were talking.’
Harriet watched her auntie, wondering if she would tell her the truth. Kate put her head to one side. She’s going to fob me off, Harriet thought.
‘It seems my reputation arrived in Langcliffe before we did. Mr Wigglesworth wants me to look into something that happened in the village a long time ago, something bad.’
‘How bad?’
‘Very bad.’
‘A m
urder?’
Her auntie’s eyes widened, surprised by how quickly Harriet had guessed. She came to a stop and said very firmly. ‘Yes, it was a murder, but you and I don’t have to think about it.’
Harriet felt a cold shiver as she remembered finding her dad’s body in the quarry. She took a deep breath. ‘You should investigate. I’ll help you.’
Certain things must run in families, Harriet thought. Her dad had been a stonemason, like his uncle. As little as he was, Harriet’s brother Austin wanted to be a stonemason, too. Harriet might be a detective. She would watch how her aunt did it. Harriet glanced across to the group that they had left. The old man, Mr Wigglesworth, stood alone. ‘Don’t turn round now, Auntie, but Mr Wigglesworth, is looking at us. Why is he so sad?’
‘Perhaps he’s just tired.’
‘Who was murdered?’
‘Harriet! Not so many questions.’
‘I’m only asking. Who?’
‘A Mr Holroyd.’
‘That’s why you looked interested when I said Mrs Holroyd was in charge of buns.’
‘Yes.’
They set off walking again and reached the edge of the green. ‘Does that mean we’re investigating?’
‘No! But it did cross my mind to have a tactful word with Mrs Holroyd, if she is the widow. She saw to the cleaning of Lilac Cottage and brought in our groceries, so I have a reason to speak to her, to say thank you.’
‘And ask a few questions.’
‘Possibly. You see, Harriet, there’s never just one version of a story.’
‘So we are investigating. I’ll be your assistant. I’ll take the place of Mr Sykes.’
At the door of the Village Institute, Harriet hesitated. ‘Mr Sykes has a pair of handcuffs.’
‘He does.’
‘Do you think we ought to send to Leeds for the handcuffs?’
‘I hope that won’t be necessary.’
‘But it would be handy to have them, just in case.’
Four
The Village Institute hummed with chatter. Excited children sat at trestle tables and under them. A toddler, happily amazed at the vastness of the space, tottered along the centre of the room drawing as much appreciation and admiration as a star stage performer.
Harriet’s friend waved. She had secured a place at a table and indicated there was tea and a bun for Harriet. I went to meet her. A friendly girl, she got to her feet straight away. ‘I’ll fetch you a cake, Mrs Shackleton. What would you like?’
That would defeat my purpose. ‘You sit down, Beth. Which is Mrs Holroyd?’
She pointed out a tall, thin woman, all angles and big pinafore, at a table near the wall, presiding over a tea urn.
Don’t expect too much, I told myself. She won’t talk about her tragedy to a total stranger. I would simply attempt to be on good terms. That would be a start.
Everything about Mrs Holroyd was severe. The set of her jaw, the unrelenting thickness of her dark straight eyebrows, the nose with flared nostrils, the tightly shut grey lips, dry and with tiny white cracks. Yet she must have been attractive once, with her sharp cheekbones and thick hair braided and wound over her head.
I am five feet two inches and had to look up to her. ‘Mrs Holroyd, how do you do. I’m Mrs Shackleton, staying at Lilac Cottage.’
‘How do you do.’
‘Thank you for getting in provisions for us.’
‘It was no trouble. I sent my daily woman with a list.’
That put me in my place.
‘Was it your daily who did such a fine job on the house?’
‘She did her best. I went in only to inspect her work.’ Her snort indicated she would rather not have set foot in the place. She picked up a thick cup. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes please.’
She placed the cup under the urn tap.
I took a plate and chose a bun. ‘Did you bake these?’
‘I did.’
‘They look delicious.’
‘That’ll be tuppence.’
I paid her. Take the chance, Kate, I told myself. Break through her defences. ‘I think I understand why Dr Simonson’s request that you help with the house may not have been welcome.’
She put my pennies in the tin. ‘I would always oblige Dr Simonson. He’s a fine man and a good doctor.’
Foolishly, I pressed on, giving voice to what was unsaid. ‘But Miss Simonson’s house is not a place you would willingly set foot in. The doctor did not realise, being away at the time of that tragic event.’
Idiot! Why had I said that?
She twisted her mouth to the right and bit on her lower left lip. ‘You know then.’
‘Yes.’
‘We don’t talk about it.’
‘Understandably.’
‘Miss Simonson persisted in her delusion. She knew what she thought she saw. Without her testimony that man — I cannot say his name — would have pleaded guilty and spared me the ordeal of a trial.’
‘I’m sorry to have brought it up.’
She looked across at Harriet and Beth. ‘Is that girl yours?’
‘She is my niece.’
‘Tuppence for her tea and cake. Church funds.’
I slid a thrupenny bit across the counter. ‘I’m glad to have met you, Mrs Holroyd.’ And that was true. It reminded me that some you win, some you lose. This whole desperate business was not my concern.
That would have been enough. I should have turned away. Picking up my tea and plate, I looked at her again. I had caught Mrs Holroyd off guard. Was she hostile and angry because of that? Might I extend some olive branch that would allow me to speak to her again under more favourable circumstances?
She spoke first. ‘If you’re going to ask about that woman’s clothes bursting out of the wardrobe, don’t. I’ve a lot of time for Dr Simonson and I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings. But you might as well know I wouldn’t touch his aunt’s clothes with the washing pole. Don’t you know what damage she did?’
She must have seen by my face that I was taken aback by her vehemence. I opened my mouth to speak, but she stopped my words with hers.
‘I held my husband in my arms as his life ebbed out of him. That Fenian would have pleaded guilty if Miss High and Mighty hadn’t stuck up for him. Sergeant Dobson as good as told me so. She wanted attention, that’s all. Who was it she thought did the deed if not the man caught with the knife in his hand? I sat in that courtroom every day. And the worst day was when she spoke. The worst day of my life. It’s unchristian to speak ill of the dead, but she was an old fool, a silly woman with too much imagination. No one in this village will ever forget. If you ask anyone what to do with her clothes, they’ll tell you to keep them till Bonfire Night, dress Guy Fawkes in them and toss him on the fire. She poisoned this village, insinuating it was one of our own men that killed my husband.’
The venom in her voice made me feel sick. What had Freda Simonson felt if this was the general attitude of the villagers? How she must have suffered for her integrity, and alone, too. I imagined she had protected Lucian by not telling him about her ordeal, by tolerating the ostracism of the village without a murmur.
She was not my relation. I had not known Freda Simonson, and it was not up to me to defend her. I looked into Mrs Holroyd’s eyes for a sprinkle of doubt, for a dash of compassion. Nothing. Hard, grey nothing.
Another villager was approaching, picking up a plate and doily. I spoke softly, but she heard. ‘I expect Miss Simonson did what she thought right.’
After the excitement of the May Day celebrations, Harriet, Lucian and I shared a quiet supper. Harriet was pleased at having made a new friend.
She took herself off to bed early, saying she had to write her diary.
I went up to make sure she was comfortable and took her a cup of cocoa.
‘Did you find out anything from Mrs Holroyd?’ she asked.
‘No. I didn’t do very well at all.’
‘There’s plenty of time.’ She took a sip of cocoa. ‘
We have two weeks. If I think of anything, I’ll write it in my diary so I don’t forget.’
Downstairs, Lucian had carried a shovelful of coal into the parlour. We sat on the sofa. He brought out the family albums, which I had asked to see.
For an hour or more, we pored over albums, looking at pictures of Lucian as a baby and toddler in India with his parents and his ayah, of the ship that brought him to England at the age of six, in the charge of a returning officer and his wife.
He and Freda had walked the hills and there were pictures of each of them, squinting into the sunlight, standing by a tarn, picnicking on a flat rock. Then there was Lucian at university, holding up his medical qualification and beaming into the camera.
When it grew dusk, he lit the gas light and tonged more coal onto the fire.
‘She took a good picture, your aunt.’
‘She did, in both senses — as a photographer and as a subject. It’s odd looking at these now. She was thirty-four when she took me in, and she seemed so ancient.’ He turned to a studio photograph of Freda, aged about nineteen, smartly dressed in black skirt and white blouse, a shorthand notebook in her hand.
‘She was so proud of being a shorthand typist, and a good one. I never thought about it at the time, but she had given up her job to take care of her parents. Then I came along. By the time I was old enough for her to return to work, there was no job for her. Not until war broke out and she worked at the Town Hall in Settle, until the men came back.’
‘I wish I had met her.’
‘I’m sorry you didn’t but she was very poorly towards the end, and not at all her old self in those last months.’
He sighed. In that moment I could see the little boy in him, the puzzled child sent on a long voyage away from everyone and everything he knew.
He returned the albums to the sideboard and took out two shoeboxes decorated with découpage, hats and gloves carefully cut from picture papers. The first box contained postcards, birthday and Christmas cards.
‘I’m spreading out my life for you, Kate. Try not to yawn!’
‘I love looking at histories trapped in shoe boxes.’
A Death in the Dales Page 3