A Death in the Dales

by Frances Brody

  I looked again at my notes from last night.

  The parish priest of St Mary and St Michael of Settle had given a character reference. He must have heard the condemned man’s last confession. If Flaherty valued his immortal soul, he would have told the truth. Might I extract that truth from the priest somehow? Matthew Walsh, the workmate who stood by his friend, was he still employed at the Hoffman Kiln? It seemed to me suspicious that during the crucial moments, he was absent, and yet so sure of Flaherty’s innocence. Mr Wigglesworth, Freda’s apothecary friend, would be only too anxious to talk to me again. According to Freda’s notes, they had travelled to Leeds together to be present at the Assize Court. For her own sanity, Mrs Holroyd must believe that the true culprit was executed for her husband’s murder. But was there some titbit of information she did not know she had, something that might shed new light? Her husband may have had enemies.

  Where I had failed with Mrs Holroyd, someone else may succeed.

  Had the accused man compatriots to visit him, family over here to offer comfort, if there was comfort at such a time?

  Upstairs, I heard Harriet moving about. She would be down shortly.

  I closed the door on the parlour and made my way into the cellar for a couple of sausages and rashers of bacon.

  Back in the kitchen, there was a basket of eggs on the dresser, and a solid-looking loaf of bread in the crock. Even all this time after the war, it seemed a privilege and a pleasure not to worry about shortages, at least here in the countryside.

  Soon the bacon and sausages sizzled in the heavy frying pan. When the rashers crisped, I cracked two eggs. Perfect timing. Harriet sauntered in, dressed in her blue flowered frock, her long brown hair still in its bedtime plait. She is tall for her age, and swiftly becoming a young woman. I smiled at her and she smiled back. If I had anything to do with it her cheeks would turn rosy before the end of our stay.

  ‘I thought we’d go to the church service, Harriet.’

  She put knives and forks on the table. ‘If you like.’

  ‘Probably Susannah will be there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, Mrs Trevelyan’s daughter from Threlfall Hall. You were supposed to meet her yesterday.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten about her. I was thinking about our investigation. Did Dr Simonson know anything about it?’

  ‘No and it might be best to keep it to ourselves for now, that we might look into it I mean. A country doctor wouldn’t want to be classed as a busybody and since we are staying in his house, we must tread carefully.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Harriet spotted the bone-handled bag which was now almost dry. ‘Whose is that nice bag?’

  ‘I found it by the war memorial when I went out earlier. There was a letter inside.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘I don’t know. One doesn’t read other people’s letters.’ I took plates from the dresser. ‘Oh cut us a couple of slices of bread, eh?’

  She picked up the bag from the fireguard and sniffed. ‘It smells of herbs.’

  ‘The bread knife’s in that top drawer.’

  ‘Mam doesn’t let me cut bread.’

  ‘Just keep your fingers and thumbs out of the way of the knife.’

  She looked at the envelope on the shelf. ‘It’s to a Mrs Young in Pendleton, Lancashire.’ Cautiously, she put the bread on the board and picked up the knife as if it might bite. She cut a thick, jagged slice. ‘Beth is from Pendleton and that must be her mother. But I don’t know who would send Mrs Young a letter because she died of appendicitis.’

  ‘How sad. When?’

  ‘Recently, and people shouldn’t die of that now, not in the twentieth century.’

  I picked up the letter. The postmark was no longer legible. ‘It’s been opened, so someone has read it.’

  ‘Beth probably. I’m glad you found it.’

  I ladled the bacon, sausage and egg onto the plates. ‘If that is Beth’s bag, we may see her at church and give it back to her.’

  Harriet’s mood changed in an instant. Suddenly she was full of energy and joy. She wanted a friend of her own age. ‘I’ll be happy if we see her. Can she come on the picnic?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The rain had stopped. I opened the kitchen window to let out the smell of cooking. ‘I do like this room, and looking out onto the garden.’

  Harriet dipped bread in her egg. I cut into the sausage, hoping they were done all the way through.

  Harriet frowned. ‘But do you think this house… would you say it’s a sad house?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It has stood empty for six months. Perhaps it just needs people to be here for a little while.’

  ‘Did Dr Simonson’s Aunt Freda die here?’

  ‘Yes, she died in the bedroom where I am. Does that upset you?’

  ‘No. Everyone has to die somewhere. Probably there isn’t a house in this village where someone hasn’t died.’

  The sadness was coming not from the house, but from Harriet, whose father did not die peacefully in his bed. I tried to lighten the mood. ‘And I expect every house has had someone born in it too.’

  Harriet smiled. ‘I know. I have to cheer up. This is our holiday, to rest your brain.’

  ‘I thought it was our holiday for your recovery. I didn’t know my brain was tired, but now that you mention it…’

  ‘Where will we go for our picnic? I want to try out that camera you gave me.’

  ‘There are caves nearby.’ I reached for Aunt Freda’s map which I had opened at the path that led out of Langcliffe towards the caves. ‘But you must tell me if you start to feel tired.’

  ‘I’m not tired.’ She looked over my shoulder at the map. ‘I’d like to see caves.’

  ‘Let’s go to church first. You might see Beth and we can tell her about the bag.’

  Harriet put down her knife and fork, forgetting the food on her plate. ‘She might not want to come with us on the picnic. She’s hoping her brother will turn up in the village today.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘She thinks he’ll come to church because everybody’s supposed to be let off work on Sunday, aren’t they?’

  ‘I suppose so. But it may be that people on remote farms forget what day it is.’

  The Neo-Gothic stone-built church of St John the Evangelist stood on the far side of the village green. With its modest grey slate roof it fitted perfectly in this workaday village. The iron gates stood open. People were already arriving in their Sunday best for the mid-morning service.

  Inside, the church’s stained-glass windows, lit by the sun, gave it a lovely brightness. The organist played some stirring but unfamiliar hymn to hurry people into the pews. There were the usual flags and banners that I came to hate so much in the aftermath of war when they had grown dusty, and the hymns of sacrifice and patriotism made me feel nauseous.

  I led us to a pew near the front where we could see the pictures on the windows to either side of the sanctuary. One of them made me smile, thinking of Harriet recovering from her illness. It was the raising of Jairus’s daughter, with the inscription, ‘The maid is not dead, but sleepeth.’

  When the service began, Harriet whispered, ‘We should have sat at the back, then we would have seen who’s here.’

  ‘People will congregate outside afterwards.’

  The vicar sped nicely through the service and then came to the pulpit. He was an elderly man with sparse hair, a fine girth and a booming voice.

  He informed us that this was the fourth Sunday after Easter and the Epistle came from St James on the Life of Faith.

  Harriet whispered, ‘My dad didn’t believe in any of this, you know. Do you?’

  ‘Shhh.’

  After the Epistle and Gospel, the vicar announced banns of marriage, looking directly at the people in the pew opposite ours, a middle-aged couple and the engaged couple, who exchanged a smile. In a sonorous voice, he said, ‘I publish the banns of marriage between Derek Pickersgill
of the Parish of Giggleswick and Jennifer Murgatroyd of this Parish. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is for the first time of asking.’

  It had never struck me before that there was a similarity between this announcement and the patter of an auctioneer. Going once, going twice, gone to the couple in the second pew.

  Having completed that little bit of business, the vicar’s manner changed in an instant. With a solemn glance, taking in the entire congregation, he straightened his cassock, and adopted a stern countenance, waiting as though expecting some culprit to own up in advance of an as yet unspecified charge. ‘Some person, no doubt some young female buoyed up with May fever, has strewn herbs in the church porch, along the path and on the hallowed ground of the churchyard. This person or persons caused the verger the extra work of sweeping. I am told our sacred war memorial is now also littered with herbs.’ He paused, his glance lighting on a small group of girls who wore bright bonnets trimmed with cotton flowers, and in his view the likely culprits. ‘Pagan practices will not be tolerated in this parish.’

  Seamlessly, having made his remonstrance, the vicar began a sermon about certain pagan practices that had been swallowed by Christianity, and how Christianity would always prevail.

  Given that the bag smelling of herbs belonged to Beth Young, and had been found at a scene of the ‘crime’ —herbs strewn around the war memorial — I guessed that the vicar had picked the wrong culprits. If anyone had cast spells, it was likely to be Beth, trying to conjure her brother.

  The final hymn was ‘Father, hear the prayer we offer’. Harriet did not sing. It struck me that this was an appropriate hymn for the place we were in. It spoke of green pastures, rugged pathways, still waters and rocks along the way.

  When we left the church, Harriet glanced about her, looking for Beth.

  She spotted her new friend, standing sentry on the edge of the village green. I gave Harriet the bag with the letter inside. ‘It must be hers, Harriet. But don’t give it to her straight away, just in case. Ask if she’s lost something.’

  Harriet nodded sagely. ‘I suppose a detective shouldn’t take anything for granted.’

  A small group had gathered by the church door and were chatting to the young couple whose banns had been read.

  After a few moments, Harriet came back. ‘It is her bag. She was hoping Martin would have come to the service. He’s at that farm she told me about, somewhere up on the hills. She doesn’t know where. She hasn’t seen him for two weeks.’

  ‘It is lambing time. Farmers are very busy at this time of year.’

  ‘Yes but she has this bad feeling, and he’s younger than she is.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Thirteen. They’ve never been apart before. It’s not fair, Auntie. If it was our Austin, I’d be frantic.’

  ‘Then if she’s worried, we must do something to help. His name’s Martin you say?’

  ‘Martin Young.’

  ‘Take Beth back to the house. She can sit on our wall and look out for him. You get a picnic ready.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ll speak to Mrs Trevelyan. Mr Trevelyan will know where the boy is, and if he doesn’t know he’ll be able to find out.’

  ‘Is anyone else coming with us on the picnic?’

  ‘No. Who were you thinking of?’

  ‘Dr Simonson.’

  ‘Not today. He’s helping to set up a photographic exhibition in Settle. We’ll explore on our own.’

  ‘So Beth can come?’

  ‘Yes, I said so. If the farm where her brother works is not too great a distance, we’ll go there and seek him.’

  I walked to where Mrs Trevelyan stood, at a little distance from her husband who was talking to two men by the side of the porch.

  ‘Mrs Shackleton! There you are.’

  ‘Mrs Trevelyan, just the person I want to see.’ It was the wrong thing to have said. She looked happy at my words, as if no one ever did or ever had wanted to see her.

  ‘That’s nice.’ She glanced across at the betrothed couple. ‘I was just congratulating Jennifer and Derek. They’re here with his parents to listen to the marriage banns.’

  There was something in the way she said ‘his parents’ that made me curious. I felt I was supposed to enquire about the bride’s parents. I hoped it would not be some story of a terrible tragedy. ‘And her parents?’ I asked politely.

  She mouthed rather than spoke. ‘Not here.’ She edged me away to the other side of the porch, saying in a rather public voice how lovely it would be for the village to have a May wedding, and so near Empire Day. When we were safely out of hearing, she spoke in a low voice. ‘Between you, me and the gatepost, Mr Murgatroyd is not happy at the match. He would have preferred his daughter to marry a young farmer. A trainee solicitor will be no help at Catrigg Farm, but I did think Mrs Murgatroyd would have put in an appearance.’

  ‘Speaking of farms,’ I said, as if we had been speaking of farms, ‘something has come up regarding a girl who works at the mill. Harriet chatted to her yesterday.’

  ‘I saw them together. The girl from Pendleton?’

  ‘Yes. Her name is Beth Young. She was hoping to see her brother who works on a nearby farm, but she does not know which one.’

  ‘Oh, yes, he was sent up to Raistrick Farm. I don’t suppose you know it?’

  ‘No, but I have the ordnance survey map.’

  ‘It’s about five miles north as the crow flies. Are you thinking of going there?’

  ‘It would be a destination. We’re to take a picnic. Perhaps Susannah would like to come?’

  ‘If she feels up to it.’ Mrs Trevelyan glanced about. ‘Oh dear, she’s done it again. Slipped away. She’ll have her nose in a book by now.’

  ‘Another time then.’

  ‘Your best way to Raistrick Farm is to go via Stainforth. There’s a track leads up from there. It’s farmed by the Gouthwaites.’ She frowned. ‘They are not the most hospitable people.’ She looked as though she might say more but thought better of it.

  ‘We won’t trouble them for hospitality but it would set Beth’s mind at rest if she knows her brother is safe and sound.’

  ‘You’re very kind, Mrs Shackleton. And I suppose this kind of thing is second nature to you, given your line of work.’

  There it was again, for the second time. She had referred to my work yesterday. This time, I did not let the remark pass. ‘Was it Dr Simonson who told you I am a private investigator?’

  ‘No. Dr Simonson is discretion itself. Word went round the area when you were over at Bolton Abbey not so very long ago.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  She glanced about, and drew me a few yards away from the porch, out of hearing of those dawdlers just leaving the church. ‘The thing is, Mrs Shackleton, I have a rather awkward situation that I need to discuss and I don’t know where to turn.’ She smiled as she spoke. Anyone observing us would think we were discussing the weather. ‘This is a terrible imposition, but we did get on so well at the New Year dinner dance for Skipton Hospital.’

  ‘It was a lovely evening.’

  ‘I feel we have a certain… well, we can trust each other I hope.’

  ‘Yes of course.’

  ‘I wish to consult you in a professional capacity.’

  My first instinct was to say no, because this was a holiday, away from all responsibilities except that of taking care of Harriet. But of course I did not say no. I hesitated.

  She took advantage of the pause. ‘We can’t speak here. The vicar will pounce at any moment. He comes back with us for sherry and lunch. Might you call tomorrow for a private word?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Trevelyan, but I’m here for Harriet’s sake. She is convalescing and I do need to take care of her.’

  It was best not to mention that I also needed to keep an eye on her. She can be too independent for her own good.

/>   Mrs Trevelyan was not ready to throw in the towel. ‘Bring your niece with you. Let me give you lunch. Susannah will show Harriet the garden.’

  ‘I can’t promise to help you.’

  The vicar came beaming towards us. As I was introduced, I hoped he at least would not have some private matter to discuss with me. After less than twenty-four hours, I had been swept up in Aunt Freda’s guilt and pity regarding the condemned Irishman and the murdered alehouse keeper and offered to help a mill girl locate her young brother. That was plenty to be going on with.

  I excused myself as soon as politely possible.

  Mrs Trevelyan called after me. ‘Till tomorrow! About noon?’

  My only consolation as I walked away, defeated, was that Harriet would meet a girl of her own age. I hoped that she and Susannah would take to each other.

  Slowly, I made my way back towards Lilac Cottage. When I found myself outside the former alehouse, I looked down, half expecting to see a bloodstain. Mercifully, the pavement was clear and clean. Even being in possession of the facts, it was difficult to believe that a murder took place in this peaceful setting. The shock of witnessing such a dreadful act might easily make the mind play tricks. Perhaps Aunt Freda was mistaken when she believed some sinister figure wielded the knife and ran away.

  I arrived at the cottage gate at the same moment as Beth Young. She wore a black skirt and cream blouse dotted with forget-me-nots. Her eyes sparkled with excitement at the prospect of a motorcar ride. She was swinging a dark blue bonnet by its ribbons.

  ‘I just went to tell Mrs Holroyd that if our Martin comes when I’m out looking for him, she must tell him to wait. And look what she lent me. This is a motoring bonnet. I can’t wait for Martin to see me in this.’

  Harriet was standing in the doorway. ‘If my auntie and me can’t find him, no one can.’

  Her confidence made me uneasy. I remembered the way Mrs Trevelyan had frowned when she told me the name of the farmer and it struck me as odd that a young lad had not been allowed to come to the village on May Day, lambing time or no. According to Harriet, Beth had a ‘bad feeling’ about her brother. I knew from experience that such forebodings often turned out to be justified.