She was already mentally preparing herself to break bad news to neighbours. There would be so many people to inform, family members who lived at a distance and who later today, or tomorrow, would have a police officer knocking on the door.
‘There is one other thing, Mrs Dobson.’
‘Yes?’
‘A sister and brother came to Langcliffe a little while ago for work, Beth and Martin Young. She works in the mill and lodges with Mrs Holroyd. He is thirteen and works for Mr Gouthwaite at Raistrick Farm. Martin has gone missing and his sister is worried. He was not on the farm when we went to look for him this morning.’
She frowned as from close by a girl gave an indignant yell. Mrs Dobson had brought her children to the station.
‘When was the boy last seen?’ She jotted down his name and ‘missing from Raistrick Farm’.
‘Yesterday morning.’
‘It’s a little early to be concerned, Mrs Shackleton.’ She spoke reassuringly. ‘The May Day weekend turns some young people giddy.’
‘There was an altercation between Martin and Farmer Gouthwaite. He set about the lad and the boy stuck up for himself.’
‘Did he now? So did the lad assault Farmer Gouthwaite?’
‘The other way around I would say.’
She began to write again. ‘Try not to worry about the kid. He may have taken to his heels to avoid a thick ear.’
‘But he would have tried to see his sister.’
‘He’ll have his pride, young as he is. He may have gone off for work elsewhere. He’ll no doubt come round boasting to his sister when he’s found another place, or he’ll be back to the Gouthwaites with his tail between his legs.’
‘He’s only thirteen, Mrs Dobson.’
She tapped the ledger with her pencil. ‘Well you see I’ve made a note of all you’ve said. His sister should have made her first call to the constable in Langcliffe. And in my experience boys aren’t always as keen to see a big sister as she is to see him.’
There was nothing more to add. From any reasonable point of view, the sudden death must take priority over the vagaries of a young lad who at this moment might be fishing in the Ribble or climbing a hill for the sake of the view.
I hoped Mrs Dobson was right and that, like Beth, I was worrying unnecessarily, which I sometimes do. Once you have expected a person to come home, as I had expected my husband Gerald to return from the war, and you never see that loved one again, there is a tendency always to fear the worst.
Outside, Mr Wigglesworth was waiting for me.
‘All satisfactory?’
‘As satisfactory as may be.’
‘Good. Then allow me to escort you back to your car.’
We walked in companionable silence, Mr Wigglesworth politely ensuring he kept to the outside of the pavement. I don’t know where the question came from or why I voiced it.
‘Mr Wigglesworth, did you start photographing smoke when Lucian’s Aunt Freda took ill?’
‘Why bless you no.’ He laughed his particular laugh, a strange choked sound that could be mistaken for the start of a nasty cough. ‘Freda had been ill some time, but I suppose you have hit a nail on its head. I did start photographing smoke one day while visiting her, the smoke from her own chimney. Another time I photographed from her window, while she was dozing, smoke from the chimney of the opposite house.’
‘The one that had been the White Hart?’
‘The very same. Smoke is such a choker, so intangible, it’s there and it’s gone.’
‘I suppose that’s why it’s beloved in pantomime for genies and for Neptune, smoke and mirrors. I only glanced at your photographs, but I could see that you capture it well.’
‘I capture something, but not it, not the mystery of it.’
‘May I ask you something?’
This time the nervous laugh did not wait until he had finished speaking but came first. ‘Ask away.’
‘Did you believe, like Freda, that Joseph Flaherty was not guilty of Rufus Holroyd’s murder?’
He hesitated. ‘I am thinking how best to say this. I trusted Freda Simonson’s judgement, her truthfulness and her powers of observation. If she said there was a third man, then there was a third man.’
‘But she was not believed.’
‘The prosecutor raised questions about her eyesight and the distance between the house and the tavern.’
‘Who else believed her?’
‘Flaherty’s priest must have believed her. He vouched for his parishioner, gave him a good character and stood by him to the end. There’s much to be said for having faith.’
‘And yet he was found guilty.’
‘The counsel for the prosecution was the better man, a more powerful advocate than the counsel for the defence. He persuaded the jury. It was hard to take in the judge’s summing up. It came as such a shock, you see, having expected — or at least hoped — for something different. When we read it together later, we were shocked. It made such chilling reading.’
I wondered had he noticed the letters that Freda had written each year to Joseph Flaherty. I felt sure he had, but did not like to mention them. This was not the time or the place. We had reached my car, which I had left parked outside Dr McKinley’s house. I thanked Mr Wigglesworth for walking with me.
He raised his hat. ‘I was very fond of Freda. We relied on each other a great deal. I’m sorry you did not meet her.’
‘So am I.’
‘Mrs Shackleton, how long will you stay in Langcliffe?’
‘Oh, about two weeks.’
‘Would you visit me in my pharmacy? I’m just along from here — opposite the Market Place.’
‘Yes, I’d like that.’
‘Good, good. I could speak more freely there. It would be difficult for me to come into Freda’s house and sit drinking tea, expecting her to appear and make one of her wry remarks. And you are curious about… well, the Langcliffe murder, and perhaps… I don’t know.’
‘I admit I am curious.’
‘Bring your niece with you. You and I can talk. My assistant will amuse her, let her weigh out poisons, children like that sort of thing. Call any day. I am always there.’ He watched me get into the car. ‘Always there,’ he repeated as I started the engine. As I drove away, he laughed. It was the saddest sound I have ever heard.
Mr Wigglesworth had something else on his mind as well as the murder, something he could not bring himself to hint of, but what?
Twelve
It was a relief to find Harriet and Beth safely where I had left them.
They had saved me a cheese sandwich, a slice of currant cake and half a bottle of cold tea. I was so hungry that it felt like a banquet. As I ate, they told me about meeting Gabriel Cherry. They spoke together.
‘He’ll keep an eye out for Martin.’
‘He works on the same farm.’
‘That’s good news.’
‘What happened in Settle?’ Beth asked. ‘Has anyone seen him?’
‘No, but it looks very hopeful. The police sergeant’s wife made a good point. She said that Martin wouldn’t want to upset you by telling you about leaving his job. There are lots of farms about and at this time of year they all need extra help. The minute he is settled and happy again, he’ll send word, just you wait and see. Dr Simonson says the same thing. It’s not unusual for a lad to do a bit of wandering. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon.’
‘Don’t report him missing to the Langcliffe constable, will you?’
‘Why not?’
‘They’ll send him back to that farm.’
‘No one will send him back. Dr Simonson and I will see to that.’
I had convinced the girls, but deep down did not believe my own words. Was I being foolish or pessimistic in expecting an upsetting outcome? I wanted to imagine the boy fishing, climbing, walking by the river, tossing stones, but the image of a bruised lad hurt and alone came suddenly and unexpectedly. I tried to blot out the image.
Beth went ba
ck to her lodgings, keen to tell her friend Madge about her adventures. When Harriet and I were alone again in the cottage, I insisted that she sit in the best chair in the parlour and rest. Parlours are too often reserved for special occasions and I see no point in having them at all if the main use is for funeral teas and visiting clergymen.
‘Are you any good at tapestry, Harriet? There’s an unfinished country scene here.’
‘No! I hate tapestry, and I don’t like that picture.’
‘Oh, all right, just a thought.’
‘I have some information about our murder investigation.’ She looked very pleased with herself and I did not want to burst her bubble.
‘What information?’
‘Oh!’ She suddenly deflated without any help from me. ‘Now I don’t know if I should say.’
‘Try me.’
‘It might be upsetting for Beth.’
‘I don’t see how. The murder was ten years ago, so how could there be a connection with Beth?’
‘Her father goes round the country when it’s time to kill pigs. He once came to Langcliffe and he lost his knife — or that’s what she said, and something about a murder.’
‘She would have been five years old.’
‘But it’s a coincidence, isn’t it?’
‘Where is he now, Mr Young?’
‘She doesn’t know. He went off, doing his rounds, whatever he does. What if he’s a murderer?’
‘It’s unlikely. He would have no motive for killing the innkeeper and I shouldn’t think he would dress in a long dark coat and pulled-down hat. People wear what suits their trade and that doesn’t sound like the uniform of a travelling slaughter-man.’
‘No it doesn’t. He’d have worn trousers tucked in his boots and a jacket or jerkin.’
‘If Beth’s father is one of those men who spends more time away than at home, a child is bound to take little bits of information and embroider stories.’
‘Oh she doesn’t think he’s a murderer.’
‘And we have no reason to suppose he is. Now you rest. Shut your eyes for half an hour while I work out what to have for supper. It’s been a long day.’
The tap on the door startled me. It was long after ten o’clock. Harriet had gone to bed, disappointed that there had been no word of Martin.
After looking through the window and spotting Lucian, who gave a tentative smile, I went to the door to let him in.
‘Sorry, Kate. It’s late but…’
‘Come in!’
He stepped inside, taking off his leather motorcycle helmet. ‘I saw Mr Murgatroyd off to the hospital for an autopsy and then had a case of pneumonia in Giggleswick. Just wanted to check that you were all safe and sound.’
‘Well I’m glad you’re here. Have you eaten?’
‘Not since midday at McKinley’s.’
We walked through to the kitchen. ‘I thought you might call. I’ve saved you ham and potatoes. How is Mrs Murgatroyd?’
He took off his jacket, went to the sink and rolled up his sleeves to wash his hands. ‘She’s over the initial shock. The daughter’s fiancé and in-laws arrived just as I was leaving. One of their farm workers went into Settle to fetch his brother out of retirement to lend a hand.’
I put the food on the table. ‘It’s good that they will have someone to help in a practical way.’
‘Folk will rally round. There are plenty of men who gave up the land, feeling old and tired, and within a matter of months they are back on form and climbing the walls for want of work.’ He dried his hands. ‘I was half tempted to offer my services.’
‘You’ve worked on a farm?’
‘Growing up here every lad did, and the girls too. There’s not much I can’t turn my hand to.’
‘Hidden talents.’
‘I enjoy it. I’ve put my name down for one of the Langcliffe allotments, though I’ll have to wait for someone to die.’ He sat down at the table. ‘Do you garden?’
‘I leave that to my housekeeper and a gardener.’
‘How very Marie Antoinette of you.’
I had not thought of Lucian as a countryman, but of course he was, a countryman through and through, with his light tweed check suit, the waistcoat in a solid brown and — a concession to Sunday apparel — the brown brogues.
I sat down opposite him.
‘What?’ He spooned mustard onto his ham. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘Haven’t you ever lived in a city?’
‘Only when I was at medical school in Edinburgh, and even then I came back here during the vacations. Best thing that happened to me was coming to Langcliffe. That’s why I’d like to make it my home again. We have an excellent school in the village.’
He looked at me quite pointedly as he made this roundabout attempt to open a discussion about having children. Feeling a little mean, I parried his well-intentioned efforts. I was happy to spend more time with Lucian, and get to know him better, but it was too soon to let him turn this fortnight’s convalescence for Harriet into an intense notching up of our growing friendship, or courtship.
‘So it was village school science that turned you into a doctor?’
‘Oddly enough, my vocation came in a rather chilly way when I was eleven years old. I’d been out swimming in very cold water, and knew how easy it was to go into cramp, and how sometimes there is such a narrow margin between life and death.’
‘That was very thoughtful, for an eleven-year-old.’
‘I suppose it was.’
We chatted about his school for a little while. When he had finished eating, he carried his plate to the sink.
‘So tell me, Lucian, what will happen now regarding Mr Murgatroyd?’
He sighed. ‘Of course I couldn’t grant a death certificate, that’s why we need the autopsy. Neither Dr McKinley nor I attended him and can’t say how he died. There’ll be an inquest. Being an agricultural district, we have to rule out any cause of death connected with livestock.’
‘Are there any indications of that?’
‘I prefer not to speculate. Mrs Murgatroyd was casting about for causes.’
I was tempted to ask whether Mrs Murgatroyd’s administrations of morphia and laudanum may have done more harm than good, but I expect she had told him exactly what she told me.
‘Had he done anything particularly strenuous that day?’
‘Nothing more than usual. He had been out checking the stock, topping up feed, shifting milk churns, all those jobs that are routine on the farm.’
‘A death in the spring is so very sad.’
He gave a rueful smile. ‘I won’t stay much longer but let’s take a short stroll around the village. I’ve spent too long on that motorbike today. You can tell me what you and Harriet have planned for next week.’
‘Not much so far.’ We walked along the hall. ‘Victoria Trevelyan has asked us to lunch tomorrow.’ I did not tell him this planned visit was connected with some as yet unspecified investigative task.
‘That’s nice. Harriet will meet Susannah, if she hasn’t already.’
‘Neither of us has met Susannah. She seems a most elusive girl.’
‘She’s shy, a bit of a bookworm. And for some reason Bertie keeps her on a short leash.’
We stepped out onto the path and through the gate. It was a mild night. The moon shone bright and clear. Arm in arm, we crossed the street.
Suddenly I felt a chill, a shiver.
‘Do you want my jacket?’ Lucian asked.
‘No.’
‘I’ll go back for your cardigan.’
‘I wasn’t cold. Someone just walked over my grave.’
‘Not like you to be so edgy.’
The feeling of chill and dread had gone, as quickly as it came. I looked back to where we had stood. ‘Do other people feel the atmosphere of that spot?’
‘That spot?’
‘You know what I’m asking, Lucian. The place where the innkeeper was stabbed?’
He followed my gaz
e, looking at the pavement. ‘If they do, no one mentions it.’
The feeling of unease passed as Lucian pointed out houses where his childhood friends had lived and the allotments where he hoped one day to grow flowers and vegetables.
When we returned, the parlour fire was nothing more than dying embers. Lucian lit the gas mantle that created shadows in the corners of the room.
I poured two glasses of sherry from Freda’s decanter on the sideboard. ‘Let’s raise a glass to Aunt Freda.’
We touched glasses. As we sat side by side on the sofa, I knew he expected some romantic moment, but I told him about Freda’s archive of the trial that Mr Wigglesworth had given me, and about the judge’s summing up, carefully typed by Freda.
‘I wish Wigglesworth hadn’t burdened you with all that.’
‘I’m glad he did. She wanted me to know. Your aunt kept everything in such a methodical fashion, Lucian. She would have made a good court reporter.’
‘Yes. She was a very well-organised person, not given to flights of fancy. She worked in an office as a young woman, quite adventurous for her day, and very proud of her shorthand.’ He smiled. ‘She’d leave a few shorthand notes around Christmastime when she planned a surprise for me. I’d see these neat outlines on the back of an envelope and try to decipher them. I asked her to teach me, and she did, a few outlines and phrases. I used them when I was a medical student. Funny how you remember so clearly what you learned when young.’
‘What was she like?’
‘She was just my Aunt Freda. Kind, amusing, hospitable to me and my grubby little friends. We were a very mixed bunch at our school, with Bertie Trevelyan from Threlfall Hall, kids from the farms, those whose mothers worked in the mill or whose fathers worked at Hoffman Kiln. I’d often bring some hungry child back with me after school. It must have been a trial occasionally, or a struggle at the very least. If it was a well-off child she would be very blunt. “Shouldn’t you be off home for your tea?” But if it was one of the poorer children, she’d make whatever we had stretch, and we’d sit down together.’
‘I wish I’d known her.’
‘She liked the sound of you. She was intrigued to hear about a lady detective.’
A Death in the Dales Page 11