All the women at the mill said the same thing. She should not be surprised if Martin didn’t come to the village. He would be busy during lambing time. Young stock would be turned out for the first time. There’d be cows calving, grass to harrow, muck to spread. As if Beth didn’t know all that.
The feeling that something was wrong had nibbled night after night into her sleep, causing bad dreams, even with the lavender under her pillow. He ought to have managed the May Day celebration. He ought to have managed church last Sunday.
With no work today, Sunday, she would make it her business to find him.
She decided against leaving the house in the usual manner. Mrs Holroyd slept in the kitchen alcove, her bed by the wall, claiming she never shut her eyes, never caught a wink these days. Beth could believe it for though Mrs Holroyd never spoke of the terrible thing, one of the girls at the mill had told her, having earwigged when her elders did their whispering. Mr Holroyd had been brutally murdered outside some alehouse by an Irishman, a wicked Fenian.
Beth could hear Mrs Holroyd snoring, but decided not to risk tiptoeing down the stairs.
The sash window rattled as she raised it. She put her clogs in the bag carefully so as not to crush her herbs, and then hung the handle over her wrist. Now to shimmy the drainpipe.
The windowsill looked wide until the moment she needed to swing her backside onto the sill, and then suddenly it seemed too narrow. It looked slippery from the rain. Balancing carefully, holding the bottom of the window frame, she reached for the iron drainpipe that was further off than she thought. Her legs still in the room, her bottom on the cold sill, she leaned, and reached. The drainpipe looked so solid but creaked and moved. One of the black nails attaching the pipe to the wall had come undone. This might be where she tumbled to her death.
If she fell, breaking a bone or cracking her head, who would find Martin? And who would pay her bed and board to Mrs Holroyd while she recovered? Sweet nobody. She would end up in the workhouse.
So she must not fall, must never fall. It was up to her. She would make sure she and Martin stayed hale and hearty until Dad returned to say he had found work. She would keep the promise to their mother.
That sliver of a moon would be her friend tonight, now that the rain had stopped and the sky turned clear.
She clutched the rocking drainpipe with both hands. Her legs and feet dangled. She swayed and then swung a leg. Her thighs tightened on the pipe, her feet pedalled the wall. All was well. The drainpipe had agreed to help. Her mother must be looking down.
She slithered silently, passing the dark kitchen window. Her bare feet touching solid ground, she came into a crouch.
It was silly to bring her clogs. Putting them on would wake the wide world. She took them from the bag and set them by the door.
Mrs Holroyd’s house stood square-on to the washing green. One of the wooden posts of the washing line leaned in her direction, making a courteous bow. She walked along the street, turning towards the centre of the village, not minding the hard touch of the cobblestones on the soles of her cold feet.
She glanced towards the three-storey workhouse building, where, a month ago, the horse and cart had brought them from the village of Pendleton to Langcliffe. No one had called the place they were taken to the workhouse but she knew right enough what it was. She was marked down for the cotton factory and lodgings with Mrs Holroyd, the tragic widow.
‘It’s lucky for you there’s an opening at the mill here in Langcliffe,’ the clerk in the stiff collar said to her when she signed her name. ‘You’ve Mr Trevelyan of Threlfall Hall to thank for that. And it’s lucky that you have the makings of a farmhand, my lad, and that a farmer is willing to give you work.’
This was to Martin who looked pleased. He wanted to leave school and now he could.
They were too strict in the mill these days, the clerk said, especially since that bad accident when the over-keen factory inspector put in an appearance and checked birth certificates. Otherwise Martin could have gone there.
Beth told the man that Martin should be at school. She felt her fists clenching tightly and wished for the man to say that Martin could stay at school for as long as possible, and that they would stay together. That he could also come and lodge at the same place.
The clerk adjusted his metal-rimmed spectacles that had broken and were held together with sticking plaster. ‘He’s near enough fourteen, and you’re in farming country now.’
Beth and Martin exchanged a look. They had been in farming country before, but the less said the better. She could see that Martin was glad he would have a job.
‘Now where’s he going?’ The clerk glanced at his note. Beth thought she saw something like dismay in his look. ‘Ah.’ He bit his lip. ‘Well, it’ll be a roof over your head.’
Beth conjured an odd picture in her mind’s eye of Martin, standing on moorland, with a roof hovering above him and nothing else, no walls or doors. In her vision, his head was tilted to one side as he watched rain fall everywhere but on himself.
‘Mam says we’re to stay together, sir.’ Beth reached out to touch Martin, but he moved himself just out of her reach. She explained to the man in the stiff collar that their dad had what he named ‘ports of call’ where he was given work, but it was in vain.
‘Your father’s on the tramp is he?’ the man asked, getting it all wrong.
‘He’s not on the tramp. He has a skill and people pay him. He’ll be upset to come back and find Mam dead and buried and Martin and me sent away, but at least if we’re together…’
The clerk had looked at her pityingly. His glance betrayed that he did not believe her dad would return. ‘He hasn’t left us.’ She spoke as firmly as this strange situation would allow. ‘He’ll be back. He allus comes back.’
The clerk picked up a square of well-used blotting paper and pressed it cautiously onto the column where he had entered their names. ‘Then it’s lucky for you that in the meantime we in the good Parish of Langcliffe can give you a home.’
When he said that, she expected the farm was nearby. Only later did she learn that Langcliffe was a large parish including hills and dales and that the farm was some miles off. She waited until a sly-looking man came on a horse and cart to collect Martin. Martin suddenly seemed smaller, but he held his head high and said, ‘So long for now,’ and gave her a wink.
The man on the cart had a doleful look. He reminded Beth of the undertaker in Pendleton, a stillness about him. But this man had kind light blue eyes that belied his slyness. ‘Come on, kid. You’ll soon learn to be a farmer’s lad.’ He picked up Martin’s bag with big swollen hands that were sore and marked. ‘You’ll be fattened up.’
When he said that, Martin looked at Beth. For a moment she thought they would both start to laugh. She used to tell him the story of Hansel and Gretel and the witch who fattened up children for the pot.
Beth took a few steps alongside the cart, telling Martin she would see him in church on Sunday. She said it more sternly than she meant, hoping to stiffen his backbone because neither of them had mixed with strangers until now.
Beth banished these thoughts from her mind as she walked barefoot through the deserted village, passing the fountain with the memorial stone cross inscribed with names of the village men who would never come home.
The trickle of the fountain broke the silence of the night. Somewhere not far off an owl hooted, searching for something to kill.
In the churchyard, the lozenge shape of the headstones made her feel the dead wanted to speak, offer advice, tell her the right words for the job in hand. Here was an old man who had lived over eighty years. Given half a chance, his corpse would rise and offer her a mint imperial.
She wished one of these was her mother’s grave and then she could ask her what to do. But perhaps her mother was nearby in spirit, because Beth heard her voice. Find Martin.
‘How am I to find him?’
No one answered, only the wind disturbing leaves on the
yew tree, made a sound. A branch creaked. Leaves fluttered. They danced. That was what the leaves did, they danced and so must she. She shook off her shawl and draped it on a tombstone.
Everything she needed for her spell was in her bag: bay leaves for Martin, for victory and good fortune. Hawthorn to protect from harm. Lavender, always lavender to conjure the fulfilling of a promise. Mistletoe so as not to fail. Rosemary to bring good spirits to her aid. Thyme to ward off sorrow. Sage to speed his way. She hoped such abundance of herbs would not confuse the spirits.
The hem of her nightie was splashed by puddles. She hitched it up to her knees. Dip and scatter, dip and scatter herbs around the church porch, to make him come. From the porch, she danced, skipping and turning, spinning along the path.
Martin, Martin, hear my words and my calling song and come here this Sunday, dancing along, church spirits bring him to me. It’s been two weeks since him I did see.
She hoped spirits did not object to poor rhymes.
Half dizzy she stopped by a grave as the apology for a moon slid behind a cloud before appearing once more and lighting the inscription on a nearby gravestone. This was the resting place of a boy, aged nine. There were other names, too, but it was only the boy aged nine that made her gulp for breath, let go her nightie, and stare as if this name held some message.
The little boy in this grave might be Martin’s guide. ‘Fetch him to me, sweet spirit, fetch him back. Someone is keeping him from me. Show him the way, or show me the way to him.’
She knew things in this place and understood that something felt deeply wrong, yet she could not put it into words. In the daytime, she had thought about how she might wangle Martin back to Langcliffe by finding someone to take him in, or speaking to the schoolteacher. But no one she spoke to saw her point of view. Mrs Holroyd said she had left school at twelve. Even Madge told Beth she should not make a baby of a big boy.
The spirits would understand. But would they like plain English? Probably not on the grounds of a lack of magic. They would prefer something witch-like, something that could be recognised as a proper spell.
Without effort, the spell came from her lips.
Hubble de bubble de, brother me here with me, clod a lee lotter lee, bringle him back to me, river run rapidly never turn back on me. Amen.
That was more like it.
Spell almost cast, she took the oak twig from her bag and the moss that had grown on the oak. She showed it to the boy under the earth.
Where shall I place it?
In the gateway, where the living come and go.
And so she did.
This is where you must come tomorrow, Martin. I’ll be here, watching the day long, until you come.
She pictured him waking in the night to hear her. She pictured him at this gate, turning his head to look at her. She heard him say her name.
Work done, she left the churchyard as a cloud hid the moon.
By the fountain memorial she took the last of her herbs, shaking the dust and stalks from her bag and spreading them round the top of the little wall, patting them into place, watching the trickling water splash over them.
She circled the memorial three times, chanting.
Then came the rain, teeming in earnest, plastering her hair to her head, soaking her nightgown. Half blindly, she retraced her steps to the cottage.
A leak in the gutter by the drainpipe caused a whooshing flood of water to baptise her. The drainpipe was slippery and the rain beating down. Looking up she saw that Madge had closed the window. Madge! She should have looked and seen that the place in the bed beside her was empty.
Suddenly dizzy at the thought of the strength it would take her to push up the window while balancing on the sill and holding the drainpipe, she stood and stared.
As she looked up, she saw the window of the house next door open. A man’s head appeared.
‘Ye took yer time.’ He peered across and saw the window was shut. He held up a hand to signal help, leaned halfway out the window and reached over. It did not work. He came out further. He would fall and hit his head and everyone would blame her and say what was she doing, standing there in her nightie in a pool of brains from the lodger next door.
But easy as anything, he pushed up her window and then went back inside his own. He watched as she climbed the drainpipe.
When she reached the window and climbed inside, she looked out. ‘Thank you.’
He looked back. ‘Ah sure it’s no impediment. Goodnight and God bless, miss.’
An Irishman, like the Fenian who murdered Mr Holroyd. Mrs Holroyd would not like him being next door.
She hadn’t meant to say it aloud. ‘You’re Irish.’
‘Not a bit of it, miss. I put on the blarney, for a bit of a lark.’
He closed the window.
Leaning over the windowsill, Beth looked down, saw the dim outline of her clogs by the back step, and knew they would be full of rainwater.
As she closed her window, she realised that she had put down her bag and forgotten to pick it up. Someone would find it and read the letter written by her dad. They would link the herbs to her and know she had been casting spells in the churchyard. Her mother had warned her always to be careful of others’ opinions. Women of Pendle had been hanged for casting spells.
Having felt so good about doing something definite, she now felt horribly miserable and low. People could do anything to you. Make you leave your farm, your home, separate you from your brother, take you to a mill to work forty-eight hours a week and think yourself lucky, legs and arms aching, and at night dreaming about bobbins of cotton, fluffs of cotton, clouds of cotton, mountains of cotton, filling your eyes and ears, threads of cotton, choking your throat and stopping your mouth.
Six
Harriet was sleeping when I went out for the Sunday papers and to post my note to Sykes, asking him to find out what he could about the trial of Joseph James Flaherty. On the way back, I spotted a black cat on the ground near the fountain war memorial. It lay very still. A stray cow galumphed towards the memorial but the cat did not move. My eyes had played tricks. Coming closer, I realised that the ‘cat’ was a black velvet bone-handled bag. I snatched the bag before the cow mistook it for fodder. After a polite, almost affectionate glance in my direction, the animal began to drink from the base of the fountain, sloppily and with great concentration.
Inside the sodden bag was a damp letter. The dust of herbs gave off a powerful scent of lavender intensified by rain, and the sharp sorrowful aroma of rosemary. Whoever dropped the bag had also sprinkled herbs around the fountain’s ledge.
People do strange things. Perhaps the herbs were meant as an offering for the eleven men whose names were carved on the cross. Did the men know? Were they looking down and thinking, Our loved ones remember us in such peculiar ways.
It was early, and still raining. I decided to take the bag back to the house, dry it, and return it to its owner.
Stepping into the vestibule, I took off my mackintosh. By now the kettle had come to the boil and I made a pot of tea. There is something about being away from home that is very relaxing. Not only was the house without a telephone, but so was every other house in the village, excepting the post office and the police house. No one would disturb us here. This gave me a wonderful sense of freedom.
My assistant Jim Sykes and housekeeper Mrs Sugden were back in Leeds, taking care of any matters that might arise. Sykes was only too pleased to be left in charge of our current cases. Meanwhile Mrs Sugden had booked a seat on a mystery charabanc day trip, having arranged with a neighbour’s boy, Thomas Tetley, to keep an eye on our cat, Sookie, who graciously tolerates Thomas’s attentions.
I set the black velvet bag on the fireguard to dry and placed the damp envelope on the mantelshelf.
I carried my tea into the parlour where I sat in Aunt Freda’s chair and turned the pages of the newspaper. It reported a rousing speech by Austen Chamberlain, on overcoming burdens, and difficult days. Enough of
that. There were pictures from the Royal Academy exhibition. Not missing anything there then. Miners have walked out of their pits, refusing a cut in wages. Yesterday’s news. I thought about Harriet’s late father, Ethan, and how this walk-out would have brought him to his soapbox on behalf of the hardworking pitmen. There was an appeal for funds for Jane Austen’s old school. If I’d ever thought about Jane Austen’s education, I would have guessed it to be undertaken at home.
I put down the paper and looked around the parlour. This was the room that Lucian thought might make a good consulting space.
On the walls were a couple of watercolour paintings of country scenes. On top of the piano was a Japanese vase. Bookcases contained volumes of Shakespeare and other English poets alongside Goethe and Schiller. Aunt Freda had been working on a tapestry when she died and there it was, an unfinished country scene. A tray sat on the sideboard, neatly set with a doily, delicate glasses and a decanter of sherry.
On the window ledge were a few ornaments that may have been given to Freda as presents, perhaps by Lucian. They looked the sorts of pieces that would be chosen by a child. One was a boy in blue playing a bugle, another a little shepherd boy with lambs, one black, one white.
Aunt Freda only had to look across to the window to bring back the memory of that night.
Freda’s cuttings and account of events felt fresh and vivid in my thoughts. But the murder of Mr Holroyd and the conviction of Joseph James Flaherty had waited a decade. A few more weeks, months or years would not matter to Freda, at rest in the churchyard, or to Flaherty in his unquiet grave within the walls of Armley Gaol. Yet I knew with every fibre of my being that I would take on this case, futile as my efforts may prove. So I had decided. Why the sudden resolve continued to surprise me I could not say. Making notes about who to see should have given me a clue that I was hooked.
A Death in the Dales Page 5