A Death in the Dales

by Frances Brody

  ‘Couldn’t he afford a new knife?’

  ‘It wasn’t just to do with the knife. It was something to do with murder.’

  Ten

  It is a short drive along the road from Stainforth to Settle but long enough for uneasiness to set in. It makes no difference how many times I have witnessed death. Something like a shroud descends. Movements and thoughts become detached, as if someone else is taking charge. Always, there is that sharp sense of loss. The present brings back the past, as if then, that other time, other place, other loss, was here and now, and tomorrow and tomorrow. Yet more than reminders of the past, I felt on edge, that sensation of something way out of kilter. It should not be me reporting the sudden death of Farmer Murgatroyd. I did not know the man, the family. I had not even asked his Christian name. Though there was no telephone at Catrigg Farm, Mrs Murgatroyd must have some idea where the men were working. One of the farm workers ought to have gone for the doctor. How long had she let her husband lie there in the last imitation of slumber?

  Is it something in me, I asked myself, some part of me that seeks to be death’s handmaid? Some deeply ingrained feeling that it is up to me, believing myself to be the last one standing, to take on responsibility and set in motion what comes next.

  I hoped that Harriet and her new friend were enjoying their picnic by the waterfall, soothed by the timeless music of its careless rush. I love fountains and waterfalls and wanted nothing more than to be sitting there with them.

  Poor Mrs Murgatroyd. Her life would never be the same again. My shoulders tensed at the thought of her terrible experience, waking to find her husband lying dead beside her. Little wonder she could not find the words to tell her daughter when Jennifer came home from church in Langcliffe, full of news about her stay with the future in-laws and the pleasure of hearing her marriage banns read out to the congregation.

  I looked up at the high white rock, Castlebergh, that towers over Settle, as if guarding the market town from harm. When doing my research with the intention of providing an educational holiday for Harriet, I learned that for centuries this rock was a source of limestone, quarried and burned in a kiln at the base of the rock. Once, long ago, the townspeople had the lime burner presented at the court of the lord of the manor, expressing their fears that if any more lime was dug out, the rock might fall and bury the town. This fear was sparked when loose stones tumbled into a garden. A panel of jurors met to calculate risk. How many had a financial interest in the quarry, that would have been my question. After much deliberation, the jurors reached the conclusion that the rock presented no threat to the town. If it collapsed, it would fall the other way, the townspeople were told. They and their dwellings and businesses would be safe. I wouldn’t have believed a word.

  I could understand the inhabitants’ fears. We none of us know when our world may come tumbling down.

  Who, what and why do we decide to believe? Did I believe that Mrs Murgatroyd had not realised her husband was dead? A sudden feeling of suspicion began to grow. If Mr Murgatroyd had been poisoned, delaying telling of his death might allow the poison to disperse in his body. Mrs Murgatroyd could have lied to the farm workers when they reported for work, saying what she had later told Jennifer: he was unwell. When I, a stranger, knocked on her door, she became alarmed. It would be viewed suspiciously if she went on pretending everything was all right. Perhaps Murgatroyd’s death on the day his daughter’s marriage banns were read in church was a cruel coincidence. Yet he was not in favour of the marriage, Mrs Trevelyan had told me. When I spoke to Jennifer, she was disappointed that her parents were not in church. Now I thought back to the conversation. Her regret may have been tinged with relief. Her father might have been unable to conceal his opposition, appeared grumpy, or made an objection.

  A few years ago, I would not have thought like this, but now suspicion came all too easily.

  I knew where in Settle to look for Lucian. He usually ate Sunday dinner with old Dr McKinley, who had his house and practice on Duke Street.

  I drove slowly, squinting at nameplates until I saw a likely one and stopped the car. Dr McKinley’s was a solid, well-polished brass plate, bearing his name and qualifications. Dr L Simonson’s name had been newly etched below. So the partnership was complete, and Lucian’s succession secured.

  I pressed the bell.

  After a few moments, the door was opened by a small, plump woman who wore a pinafore in an abstract pattern, a white tea cloth tucked into its pocket.

  ‘Yes?’ She looked me up and down cautiously, as someone not recognised but who might be counted on to pay a fee.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m looking for…’ I could ask for McKinley, that would be the polite thing. After all, he was the man who had practised here for fifty-odd years and would likely know the Murgatroyds. But Lucian had told me that Dr McKinley had grown old and slow, and liked his naps. I compromised. ‘Either Dr McKinley, or Dr Simonson.’

  She hesitated. Was she, too, thinking that Dr McKinley must be informed about this stranger who had rung the doctors’ bell at such an inconvenient time on Sunday afternoon? Lucian had told me her name: Mrs Pontefract — a trusted employee, in post here for several decades.

  ‘Mrs Pontefract, I’m Mrs Shackleton, a friend of Dr Simonson’s. My call concerns a farmer who is up on the tops and if Dr Simonson has his motorbike…’

  Her look suddenly brimmed with understanding and perhaps approval. ‘Dr McKinley is not presently available. You’ll find Dr Simonson in the Town Hall, attending to photographs for the exhibition that’s coming up.’

  ‘Yes, he did mention that yesterday. Thank you. I’ll go there, and not disturb Dr McKinley.’

  ‘Come straight back if you don’t find him.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘I don’t know where in the Town Hall they are, but you’ll find them.’

  Thoughts of the Settle Photographic Society Open Exhibition had slipped my mind. It is a very active group and Lucian enjoys the meetings and discussions. They sometimes go on photographic outings to particular spots. Lucian has photographed caves and captured decay — the crumbling old stone shelters that are dotted about on the tops, the skull of a ram, a dead raven. He had persuaded me to enter a few photographs for display. Two of my pictures had been accepted.

  I walked to the imposing Town Hall. The architect must have fallen in love with his own design. On either side of the frontage were arched windows below and oblong above, the roof rising to a sharp point. Between these two sides was a curving middle section topped by a tiny turret.

  The first door was locked. Being Sunday, perhaps I would have to walk around the building for a tradesman’s entrance. But the second door opened. From the entrance hallway, I could hear a murmur of voices. The sound came from beyond a door on my right. The top half was frosted glass and I could not see through so pushed it fully open and stepped inside.

  It was a large room with a trestle table, a few feet from the door, full of framed photographs ready to be hung. Some of the photographs were already hung, with a few taking pride of place on easels.

  At the table in front of me, a woman was speaking, or rather announcing. ‘A distant figure in a landscape is surely landscape, not figure?’

  No one answered. She answered herself. ‘Landscape then.’

  The voice belonged to a voluptuous woman in her late twenties, dressed in flowing red and purple, a green scarf tied in a band around her bobbed hair. The much younger man beside her wore dark trousers and a velvet jacket with a pink carnation in his buttonhole. I had stumbled upon the cream of Settle’s avant-garde.

  The young man sniffed and drew a handkerchief from his pocket to stifle a sneeze. Perhaps he was allergic to his own carnation. ‘I don’t agree, Miss Nettleton. Should we not display by photographer, rather than theme?’

  ‘No, no… Variety would be sacrificed.’ She caught sight of me.

  I introduced myself and explained that I was looking for Dr Simonson.
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  ‘Welcome to the fold, Mrs Shackleton. Figures! We are in the process of sorting the exhibits. I shall be hanging you myself. Mabel Nettleton.’

  Odd, but when Lucian had mentioned the newest member, Miss Nettleton, I imagined a stout middle-aged spinster with a lorgnette. What had he said to make me create that picture?

  ‘How do you do, Miss Nettleton. I’m not here to look at the photographs just now — I shall enjoy doing that when the display is complete. I need to speak with Dr Simonson.’

  She raised a superbly plucked eyebrow. As if I had not spoken, she set two framed photographs in the centre of the table, pushing others aside. ‘These two are yours, Mrs Shackleton.’

  My photographs looked strangely out of place lying on this table, to be handled and assessed. There was my young neighbour, Thomas Tetley, in Batswing Wood, hanging precariously from the branch of an oak. The other image brought back a sharp emotion: Lizzie the weaver, holding her piece of fine woven cloth as she stood in the doorway of her cottage in Bridgestead.

  Miss Nettleton held the pictures at arms’ length in graceful, well-manicured hands. ‘I admire your portraits, but I could wish you had more of doorways. The human figure in itself does not furnish a theme.’

  The velvet jacketed youth cupped his chin. ‘D’you know, I’m not sure about that.’

  Being disinclined to enter a discussion on aesthetics, I asked again, ‘Is Dr Simonson here?’

  ‘Ah, Mrs Shackleton!’ Lucian’s voice bellowed from the other end of the room as he caught sight of me. The click-clack of his walking stick marked his steps as he crossed the parquet floor. ‘You’ve met Miss Nettleton and Mr Roberts. Now come and say hello to our chairman.’

  We met in the middle of the room. ‘Lucian, I need a private word. Urgently.’

  ‘What’s the matter? Is it Harriet unwell? Where is she?’

  ‘Harriet is grand. I left her having a picnic with her newfound friend but…’

  Lucian glanced over my shoulder. ‘Here he is again, your friend and mine, Mr Wigglesworth. He’s photographic society chairman, Kate, and he particularly admired your photographs.’

  Mr Wigglesworth trotted towards us eagerly. My information about the farmer’s death was for Lucian’s ears, but before I had time to speak, Mr Wigglesworth was upon us, eyeing me in a way that made me guess there was something else he would like to tell me about Freda and the trial.

  ‘Mrs Shackleton, what a pleasure to see you again. It was remiss of me yesterday not to compliment you on your contributions to our show. I do very much admire your photographs.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m pleased to be included.’

  ‘Not at all. Our modest society takes pride in encouraging talented outsiders. Did you have a restful night at Lilac Cottage?’

  The pat question required a standard answer. I lied, of course. My night had been anything but restful thanks to the information he had delivered in the shoebox.

  ‘Come and see Mr Wigglesworth’s photographs,’ Lucian said, leading me away. ‘He specialises in trains and houses.’

  ‘Smoke gets in your eyes is what I prefer to call them,’ Mr Wigglesworth corrected. He gave a nervous choking sort of laugh, as if embarrassed by his own turn of phrase. ‘What I like most particularly is the challenge of capturing smoke from chimneys.’ He hung back modestly as Lucian drew me towards Wigglesworth’s prints.

  Needing to speak to Lucian privately, I hoped we were out of earshot. ‘I’m sorry to break up the party, Lucian, but I want to be quick. I’ve left Harriet and a young friend at Catrigg Force with a picnic. I’m here because Farmer Murgatroyd of Catrigg Farm died during the night. I spoke to Dr McKinley’s housekeeper and she directed me here. Mrs Murgatroyd is in a state of shock and she had told no one until I arrived.’

  For a moment, I thought Lucian would ask me was I sure, but he said, ‘Did you see Mr Murgatroyd?’

  ‘I did and I can assure you that he is quite dead.’

  ‘Right. My motorbike’s in McKinley’s yard.’ He straightened his tie. ‘What were you doing at the farm?’

  ‘It’s a long story. I was helping Harriet’s friend, a girl from the mill, look for her brother.’

  He nodded. ‘I see. I’m surprised to hear about Murgatroyd. McKinley gave me chapter and verse on all the unprofitable families. Adult Murgatroyds don’t take poorly and the children let the side down only very occasionally. Murgatroyd’s not that old I don’t think.’

  ‘I’d say he’s in his mid-forties. Mr Murgatroyd complained of feeling unwell last night but his wife thought it was nothing serious.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Kate. Not a good start to your holiday.’ He touched my arm. ‘Thanks for coming. I’ll call on you later.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I’ll need to inform the coroner’s officer. As far as I’m aware Murgatroyd hasn’t seen a doctor in years. I won’t be able to issue a death certificate.’

  ‘Wait on, there’s one other thing. Where do I find the police station?’

  He frowned. ‘Why do you want the police station?’

  ‘To report a missing boy.’

  ‘There’s a constable in Langcliffe, and a sergeant here in Settle. The sergeant is coroner’s officer so if you’re going there, do please mention Mr Murgatroyd’s death.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘This boy, when was he last seen?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘That’s nothing, Kate. Boys will be boys. He’ll probably take an extra holiday for May Day. It’s an old tradition. Workers treat the following Monday as a saint’s day. Time to worry is if he doesn’t show up for work on Tuesday morning, after St Monday.’

  ‘You could be right, but I feel I ought to report him missing, if only for his sister’s sake.’

  ‘The station isn’t far.’ He glanced at Mr Wigglesworth. ‘Wiggy will show you. Tell the sergeant I’ll call at the station after I’ve visited the farmhouse, would you?’ He gave me a rueful smile. ‘Now you know what a doctor’s Sunday can turn out like. Hurry back to Catrigg Force. Enjoy your picnic.’

  With that, he was on his way, pausing only to say to Mr Wigglesworth, ‘Mrs Shackleton admires your smoky photographs but she needs a favour.’

  I watched Lucian go. He took his leave of glamorous Miss Nettleton and the young man in the velvet jacket. Miss Nettleton tried to detain him but he hurried away.

  As Mr Wigglesworth made his way across, I glanced at his pictures of houses with smoking chimneys, and trains belching steam. From a vantage point on the viaduct, he had captured the Settle to Carlisle train as it bellowed out a great plume of smoke, gigantic enough to do battle with the clouds.

  He had achieved a fine nuance in the shades of soot-black smoke, white steam and grey wisps in the air.

  In a moment, he was standing beside me. ‘Don’t bother with my snaps if you have something better to do. How might I be of service?’

  ‘Would you show me the way to the police station?’

  ‘Of course. Nothing serious, I hope?’

  He deftly ensured that we were unmolested by Miss Nettleton and Mr Roberts as we made our escape from the exhibition room.

  It suddenly seemed over-cautious not to confide in him. A few years ago, he would have been the man people sent for in case of illness or death.

  As we walked back along Duke Street, I told him about Mr Murgatroyd, and about Martin Young. He listened carefully, nodding, lengthening his stride when he sensed I was in a hurry. We turned right.

  He paused when we we reached the police station, pointing out a long, steep row of steps with a wooden rail beside them. ‘That is the courtroom. It adjoins the police station. This is where it all began, with the inquest into the death of Rufus Holroyd, and the magistrates’ committal proceedings. I don’t suppose you have looked at Freda’s papers on the case?’

  ‘I looked through them last night.’

  ‘Thank you. I didn’t dare hope that you might take an interest.’

  We looked at each other, and there was
no need to speak. In that moment, I knew that he would never rest until he was able to vindicate his friend, Freda. After so many years, that might prove impossible. But if she was right, then the murderer of Rufus Holroyd was still at large.

  Eleven

  Mr Wigglesworth and I stepped into the police station yard.

  ‘I’ll wait here for you, Mrs Shackleton.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  There was no one at the counter. I tapped the small bell, and waited.

  A woman in a dark green skirt and cream blouse with a white Peter Pan collar came to the desk. Her brown hair lay in a wing across a high forehead. She wore a neutral expression which I wondered had she cultivated for just this purpose. ‘May I help you?’

  ‘I need to speak to Sergeant Dobson please.’

  ‘He will be back in an hour. I’m Mrs Dobson, and you are?’

  Clever woman. Find out who has come to call on the police before that person changes her mind and scarpers.

  ‘Mrs Catherine Shackleton. I’m visiting Langcliffe, staying at Lilac Cottage.’

  Not wishing to wait an hour for the sergeant’s return, I explained about Mr Murgatroyd’s death and that I had informed Dr Simonson.

  ‘Goodness what a shock. That is very public-spirited of you, Mrs Shackleton, and you here on holiday.’ She wrote details in a log book. ‘Is there anyone with Mrs Murgatroyd?’

  ‘Her daughter, Jennifer. I looked out for one of the farmworkers but there was no one in sight.’

  ‘That time of year.’

  ‘Jennifer was only just back, after being in church for her marriage banns. She had been staying with her future in-laws in Settle.’

  Mrs Dobson sighed. ‘Poor girl. I know the Pickersgills.’ She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I’m sorry to ask you this, but I suppose there is no doubt that Mr Murgatroyd is dead?’

  ‘None. I saw him myself. I nursed in the VAD.’

  ‘Thank you. Leave this with me. I’m sure my husband will want to make the farm his first call when I’ve told him. It’s likely Mrs Murgatroyd will want her cousin to know, and the Pickersgills too.’