A second decorated box held maps of the local area and some drawings — very good drawings — by Lucian as a boy. I took out a map that would be useful for our walks.
He had not seen the plain box brought by Mr Wigglesworth. I wanted to mention it, but he was being quite restrained, unusually so. I realised that after his earlier confidences about our possible future in this house, he did not want me to feel pressure or obligation at being under his roof.
We sat side by side, feeling comfortable and quietly happy.
Finally, he stood up and stretched. ‘I’d better be on my way or we’ll be the subject of gossip.’
‘That wouldn’t do your reputation any good.’
He laughed. ‘I know you’re joking, but a doctor has to think about these things.’
At the door, he said, ‘Did old Wigglesworth have much to say for himself?’
Now I had to tell him.
‘He told me about the murder your aunt witnessed.’
‘Oh. I wish he hadn’t.’
‘When were you going to tell me?’
‘Not on your first day here.’ He sighed. ‘That whole business upset her greatly. Towards the end, she was supposed to be resting, but she would go to the window and look across, as if re-living that night. It was most distressing.’
‘Lucian, what made you ask the murdered man’s widow to see to Lilac Cottage and order groceries?’
He looked totally surprised. ‘I’m not sure. I happened to bump into her. She’s a stalwart of the church, Mrs Holroyd. She takes in lodgers that she prefers to call guests. I thought she might need the money.’
I did not have the heart to tell him how deeply Mrs Holroyd resented and detested Freda Simonson.
When I had waved Lucian off at the door, I went back into the parlour and put a log on the fire. The miners were on strike and I had not thought to ask Lucian how much coal there was in the cellar.
I lifted out the shoebox and sat on the floor where I would be able to spread out the papers. I had not previously noticed the writing on the lid. It was a quotation, but I could not place it.
A better lad, if things went right,
Than most that sleep outside.
There were newspaper cuttings; a coroner’s letter demanding the attendance of Miss Freda Simonson at the inquest into the death of Rufus Charles Holroyd; what appeared to be Freda’s hand-written witness statement; solicitor’s letters, and a judge’s summing up that had been typed. By whom, I wondered. And then I thought of the photograph of Freda with her shorthand notebook. Had she sat in the courtroom, taking down the judge’s words? Or had she copied it from some newspaper?
There was enough here for me to reconstruct the trial. I hesitated. Now was not the time to look through these papers. But when would be the time?
The coroner’s letter demanding Miss Simonson’s attendance at the inquest was so formal that it read like a threat, giving a hint of what must have been a dreadful ordeal to follow.
Until late, I sat looking at the papers. There was the article from the Craven Herald giving an account of the ‘Committal of Lime Kiln Worker for Murder at Langcliffe’, stating that Joseph James Flaherty, a native of Dublin residing in Langcliffe and lately employed at the Hoffman Kiln, had been in custody since the sixth instant charged with the murder of Rufus Holroyd, a beer seller at Langcliffe. He was brought up before J Birkbeck, Esquire, Reverend H J Swale and H Christie, Esquire. The reporter rather sniffily commented on the proceedings being conducted behind closed doors, the public being excluded for reasons the reporter did not glean.
There were notes in two sets of writing. Freda’s notes were in shorthand, with the occasional longhand word. I soon realised that the other person’s hand must be Mr Wigglesworth’s and that they attended the trial together. It all felt too much for me to make sense of, after today’s long journey and the effort of being in a strange place.
I folded the sheets of paper, ready to return them to the shoebox. As I did so, I noticed that the bottom of the box was lined with thick crepe paper, and there was something under it.
I removed the crepe paper and took out two foolscap sheets filled with neat writing from a broad nib. The ink had turned brown. The passages, in the form of letters, had been written a year apart from each other over a period of ten years. Freda, showing her Yorkshire thrift and acknowledging the wartime shortage of paper, had left narrow spaces between each entry.
These were messages that would never be sent through the post. Each one was addressed to Joseph Flaherty.
It took me a moment to realise that her chosen day of writing to the man she had failed to save was each anniversary of his execution. Although the fire burned brightly, I felt a chill and reached for the shawl that was draped across the back of Freda’s chair, and then I began to read.
Third Thursday in June 1916
Dear Joseph
It is now five minutes past that fateful hour. The terrible and unjust deed is done. I failed you in court. I failed today. I should have kept watch by the wall of Armley Gaol when you took your last steps on this earth. My friend Wiggy and your priest were there. They took the train to Leeds when I was too knotted with stomach cramps to leave the house. My body let me down. That long night I was on my knees, praying and doubled in pain. As if we have not wasted enough young lives with this war.
Third Thursday in June 1917
Dear Joseph
My nephew Lucian is home on leave. When I came home from work we sat in the garden. What he has seen and lived through I can only guess but when he looks at the anemones, snapdragons and marigolds, he is mesmerised into silence. He does not smile as often as he used to. When he does, the smile does not light his face. It hurts me to see him. When I ask what it was like over there, he names places and changes the subject. At least he is alive, I hear you say, if you could speak. When I told him about the murder, he showed no curiosity, as if it had happened centuries ago. A neighbour came apologising but asking him to examine her little boy who has broken out in spots. Thankfully it is not measles but a heat rash. The sun shines, just as if everything in life should be perfect. You must have been so hot working in those harsh conditions at the lime kiln. How I wish you worked there still.
Third Thursday in June 1918
Dear Joseph James
I have not forgotten you. You are in my thoughts and prayers.
An odd thing happened today. No one mentions you. On this day I do not go out and of course no one calls. But today someone did, and had such a pleasant and sympathetic visit with me that I wonder whether my friend Wiggy told him how I mark the day. It was Gabriel Cherry, whom I have known since he was a boy. He is on leave and brought a set of picture postcards of Arras. He said he appreciated my letters and the little oddments I send. The poor chap has no one else. I asked him if he would like to have Lucian’s room but he says he will stay on the farm as the Gouthwaites need help. He brought a friendly little mongrel back from France and I have agreed to take care of Nipper until Gabriel comes home. Gabriel has always liked to read and I gave him the pick of books as Lucian said he would not read them again. He chose Treasure Island, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. After visiting me he was going to see the gardener at Threlfall Hall whose son will not be coming home from the war. I wonder, would you have enlisted, or been called up? Gabriel is a corporal, a well-deserved promotion.
Third Thursday in June 1919
Dear Joseph
Wiggy came today. I am now surplus to requirements at the Town Hall and no longer have Nipper to walk because, mercifully, Gabriel Cherry came home in one piece. The days are long. Our nation has chosen its day of remembrance but Wiggy and I have this extra day that we must mark, your day, Joseph’s Day. We walked by the Hoffman Kiln, once more fully fired like the furnaces of hell. From there we made our way along the riverside. Wiggy said, ‘We are like the River Ribble, you and I. We flow in another direction.’ Well why should a river not flow east to west as well as west to east?
What would your life be like now, with the situation in Ireland such as it is?
Third Thursday in June 1920
Dear Joseph
I went to your church and lit a candle for you. Afterwards I sat with Wiggy in his shop and helped with tinctures.
Lucian finds it hard to settle. In spite of the injury to his leg, he is determined to keep up his walking and is off on some long hike today. He cannot ride his bike but says he might manage some kind of adapted motorbike. We will look into it. Sometimes it strikes me that the war was not against nations but against young men.
Third Thursday in June 1921
Dear Joe
Were you called Joe sometimes?
I am not forgotten by some of my neighbours for giving my evidence and trying to make the truth known. Today in the Village Institute preparations are in full swing for the summer fete but my services are not required.
Third Thursday in June 1922
Dear Joseph
Wiggy and I made a grand pilgrimage today. He is a great one for consulting Bradshaw. We managed all the connections to take us to Morecambe where we stood and looked across the Irish Sea and skimmed pebbles into the waves. The tide was so far out I thought we must have walked halfway to Ireland just to find the water’s edge.
Third Thursday in June 1923
Hello Joe
You must have reached heaven by now. I refuse to believe otherwise.
Lucian is over at Bolton Abbey. After last year’s mishaps it seems that those who matter are determined to have a doctor in the vicinity. Lucian has his eye on renting a property in Embsay where he might provide a surgery for the surrounding hamlets. Did you know that one of the Devonshires (they have the estate at Bolton Abbey) was murdered in Phoenix Park? He was not the intended target having gone to Dublin to Do The Right Thing regarding the Irish Question. Is that not a tragic irony?
Third Thursday in June 1924
Dear Joseph
You would like Gabriel Cherry. I told you before that he visits me and the gardener at Threlfall Hall. Today I gave him more books. It does not surprise me that he likes Henty and Conan Doyle but I was surprised that he has taken a fancy to Jane Austen.
Third Thursday in June 1925
Dear Joseph
This will please you. It pleases me. Lucian has found a friend, a widow but still young. Her name is Catherine Shackleton. I like that name. When I am gone, this house will be Lucian’s. She must want children and so must he though he gives no indication. I won’t tell her about you straight away, not on first meeting, or she will think me strange. You are wondering why I should tell her about you at all, after all this time. She is a private investigator. Is it too much to hope that so far on, she might clear your name? If a soul can move from purgatory to heaven in a hundred thousand years or the twinkling of an eye, anything is possible.
If my plan to clear your name succeeds, Judge Mr Justice Pelham will eat his words, the jury will hang their heads in shame and angels wipe their tears.
I folded the letters away. What store Aunt Freda had set by me, expecting that I would find out who really did kill Rufus Holroyd. How I wished I had met Freda. She had almost six months of life left to her when she wrote that final note. I felt upset with Lucian that he had not told me she was ill and wanted to meet me. But perhaps he did not know. From the way she wrote, they had not been close to each other after he came back from the war. Yet I knew how fond he was of her.
I have had some strange requests for my professional services over the years but this was the first time the summons had arrived from beyond the grave. Would I take on the case, I asked myself, and if so how would I explain myself to Harriet and to Lucian?
If I did, it would have to wait. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with Harriet’s recuperation.
It gave me a surprise to hear the volume of my sigh.
Later, in the bedroom that had been Aunt Freda’s, I tried to sleep. Freda must have grown accustomed to sleepless nights during that desperate time. I could understand how the events of that evening gnawed away at her.
Sleep escaped me. There was not a sound to be heard in the village. Yet as I listened to the silence, I heard the faint rustle of wind down the chimney and the slight rattle of the window pane. The rattle took my attention. It was easier to blame the rattle for my sleeplessness than the unease of my mind and spirit.
Aunt Freda had made a list of the witnesses for the defence. There was herself, of course; Flaherty’s parish priest; his foreman and workmates, including Matthew Walsh, the friend who was with Joseph on that fateful night.
Her papers included a note from Bradley Wigglesworth, signing himself Wiggy, arranging to travel into Leeds with Freda for the trial. If I were to re-investigate this murder, which was what Freda had hoped, I could do worse than talk to these people. Mr Wigglesworth had made it plain he wanted to talk to me. As for the others, I could not imagine they would welcome the subject being re-opened. Some of them may have died or moved away. My failure with Mrs Holroyd rankled, and so did her accusation against Freda. ‘She was a silly woman with too much imagination.’
The window frame rattle grew more frequent. I looked in my bag for some card or paper to jam in the space between the window and the frame. The letter Lucian had sent to me giving directions for the journey to Langcliffe would do the trick.
A floorboard creaked as I went to the window. My eyes were drawn to that building, that former alehouse where Holroyd had been fatally stabbed. What a scene of horror Freda had witnessed a decade ago. Did she suffer nightmares ever after?
It was no use pretending I could ignore Aunt Freda’s wish. No doubt this would be the wildest of goose chases and would make me permanently unwelcome in Langcliffe, but I must find out whether there truly had been a serious injustice done to Mr Flaherty.
I took out my writing case and, sitting at Freda’s dressing table, wrote a note to Jim Sykes, telling him of Freda Simonson’s cuttings, and her concern, and asking whether there was anything else he could uncover about the trial of Joseph James Flaherty at Leeds Assizes in June 1916.
As I sealed the envelope, the grandmother clock downstairs surprised me by beginning its midnight chime. When I looked out of the window a ghostly figure in white appeared from nowhere, crossed by the war memorial, and disappeared from view.
Five
Beth Young shivered. It was strange to be out when everyone else in the village slept. She chuckled to herself. If any curtain-twitcher caught sight of her crossing the village at dead of night in her long white nightgown and black shawl of invisibility, they would think a headless ghost walked through the village. They would tell the tale of her and create a new story, a legend for all time.
It had been her intention to stay awake until midnight. That didn’t happen. After working at the mill Saturday morning, she had hung about at the Mayday celebrations into the evening, watching and waiting for Martin to come. After supper, she played cards with Mrs Holroyd and Madge.
Beth and Madge shared a big iron bed that put Beth in mind of a raft that would float away through the ceiling and sail to the stars as roof slates dissolved into air. Once she climbed into bed, she felt suddenly tired and knew she must shut her eyes just for a little while. Once settled, she banged her head on the pillow eleven-and-a-bit times, to be sure of waking before midnight.
‘What you doing?’ Madge asked.
‘Reminding meself.’
‘What about?’
‘I forget.’
‘You’r
e mad, you.’
She opened her eyes just before the witching hour. In the moonlit room everything took on an air of strangeness. Beside her, Madge slept. Beth would have liked to tell her the Big Plan, but Madge would only blab and then all the girls at work would take the mickey. ‘Beth and her magic. They hang witches, you know.’
On a night like this, witchery must work. Witches knew a thing or two. She once watched her mother empty a teapot on the grass and chant a wish, so there must be something in it but only a fool would let the world know what she was up to.
She slid from the bed. Quietly, she picked up her shawl, clogs and the bone-handled bag that contained all the paraphernalia she would need to cast her spell, and her dad’s letter of course, which she carried about with her like a talisman. She reached her fingers into the bag and touched laurel leaves, lavender, rosemary and mistletoe. To give herself strength for the task in hand, she took out the rosemary, held it to her nostrils and breathed in. It was a sharp, no nonsense smell, clean and clear but with a terrible longing mixed in — a heartfelt longing for now to be then, when everything, which was never really all right, at least seemed to be.
Most of all, she wanted her mam back, longed for her, could barely believe that she was no longer here, even though Beth and Martin had watched the coffin swallowed into the earth.
It was no use wishing for her dad. He would come back when he was ready, and find everything changed, and his wife and children gone.
All she could do is what she would do. Find Martin. This coming morning, by fair means or foul, Beth would find her brother. At first, she had been persuaded to believe that it would be good for him to live on a hill farm. Surely to be on a farm, once again in the open air, with hens and pigs and plenty to eat, would suit him. It would not suit her, not now. The mill was to her liking. She chummed up easily with the other girls and women. They liked her face and that she had a bit of life in her and wasn’t afraid to answer back. They were all in the same boat, ready for a laugh and a joke, and no going outdoors in all weathers.
A Death in the Dales Page 4