A Death in the Dales

by Frances Brody

  ‘Is that what I am?’

  ‘So much more than that, Kate. I think you know that, and she sensed it too. She asked me, “Do you think she’ll like Langcliffe?” I said you would. Was I right?’

  We sat in silence for a few moments. ‘Lucian, I have a feeling that her real question was would I be able to clear Joseph Flaherty’s name.’

  He put his arm around me. ‘Surely not. That business was so long ago and it’s too late now.’

  ‘Tell me honestly, might she, after all this time, have been hoping for a reversal of judgement for Flaherty, some appeal to a greater authority perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t know that she would have hoped for that. The establishment is somewhat unbending in these matters and I think we are not yet able to look back and admit all the mistakes that have been made since our century began.’

  ‘At least she wouldn’t have been disappointed in you, Lucian. She must have been very proud of you.’

  ‘She was, and quite rightly because of her encouragement in all my endeavours. There’ll be a scrapbook somewhere. I collected specimens of flowers and plants. We dried them together. She typed their names and I cut the strips of paper and pasted them in the book.’

  ‘She must have been delighted when you decided to study medicine.’

  ‘Ecstatic! Some ancestor of ours had been a physician. She had this theory that I had inherited his aptitude and that my vocation was meant to be.’

  ‘Did you tell her that your vocation really came about when you went swimming in icy water?’

  He frowned and then remembered the account he had given me of realising that in bitterly cold water the margin between life and death can be so very narrow.

  ‘Certainly not! What child tells their parent or guardian something that will make their hair stand on end and consider forbidding activities that they previously knew nothing of?’

  ‘I’m trying to understand what she was really like. The accused man was Irish. Did she have political sympathies for Home Rule?’

  ‘We never discussed Irish politics, but I doubt it very much. She had no great truck with politics and politicians, particularly of the radical slant. She was very traditional. We kept Empire Day in fine style. She hadn’t a good word to say about Ramsay MacDonald and Keir Hardie. When I came home from Edinburgh with new ideas, she went very quiet.’

  ‘The prosecution barrister didn’t dare cast doubt on her integrity, but according to the judge’s summing up he did suggest that she had grown short-sighted.’

  ‘She wore spectacles only for reading. Of course we don’t know whether her eyesight had deteriorated. It’s quite likely.’

  I stood and went to the window. ‘The prosecution made much of the fact that the moon was in its last quarter and the night was cloudy.’

  Lucian stood up and came to stand beside me. He put his arm around my waist. ‘How strange. It must have been a night just like tonight.’

  A crescent moon was sandwiched between clouds. For a moment we stood in silence, looking at the sky, and at the stars.

  ‘I want to do a test, Lucian.’

  ‘What?’

  I freed myself from his embrace and went to the table, picking up a candlestick. ‘I’ll light my way upstairs. Will you go across and stand in the spot that gave me the shivers? I’ll be at the bedroom window and will look across.’

  ‘Is this necessary?’

  I took a taper from the shelf and lit the candle. ‘I want to know.’

  ‘But you’re two decades younger than she. Your eyesight is bound to be sharper, and what will it tell us?’

  ‘Let us at least try to think ourselves back to that night, if only to acknowledge her experience. Humour me, please.’

  He sighed. ‘You’re right. I owe it to Aunt Freda. I wasn’t here when she needed me and I’ll always regret that.’

  We walked together into the hall. He opened the door and went out, closing it gently behind him.

  I climbed the stairs, as Aunt Freda must have done that fateful night, and every night of her life. Opening the bedroom door, I trod softly to the window and looked across to what had been the alehouse.

  Lucian had already reached the spot. The bracket lamp lit his familiar figure as he stood near the house wall. He took a few steps, this way and that. Tonight, Sunday, was quiet. On the Saturday of the murder, the place would have been busy. There may have been someone else going into the bar, coming out, turning away too quickly to have seen the murder. It was quite possible there were other witnesses who had not come forward, not wanting to be summoned to court and have the trouble of giving evidence and losing a day’s pay.

  Lucian now stood stock still. On the night in question, there would have been extra light from a high window that was now dark. After all, what attracted men to these places as much as the ale was warmth, light and comfort. A light from within may have created a shadow as the lamp now did. Was Aunt Freda standing here long, or did she merely glimpse something that might have been? She was so convinced. Yet back in that time of war, we all saw shadows that turned into someone familiar, someone we hoped to see.

  It was not possible to recreate what she saw. As on so many other occasions in my life, I could be sure of nothing.

  I waved to Lucian. He did not see my wave. I raised the candle up and down, to signal my test was over.

  Shortly after that, we said our goodnights. I walked with him to the gate.

  He turned back. ‘Kate, don’t take this the wrong way, but how is it that you have time for this… this investigation, but not for discussing… well, not for talking about us?’

  ‘Lucian, what’s your hurry? We’ve been here a day and half!’

  ‘Well, precisely, and you’re in the throes of an investigation. I’m sorry, but that’s how it seems.’

  He had put me on the defensive. ‘I thought this couple of weeks would let us get to know each other a little better.’

  ‘I want that, too.’

  ‘Well then, have I complained that you’ve visited patients and organised a post mortem?’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘How different?’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to come with me and make notes, or cross the street and pretend to be a… a murderer by gaslight or play the role of Pneumonia.’

  ‘You made a very good murderer.’

  He laughed. ‘Is this our first falling out?’

  ‘I think it is.’

  He fastened his motorcycle helmet. ‘Then I hope it’s the first of many because no matter what you say, I know you well enough to hope we’ll spend the rest of our lives together.’

  Thirteen

  Monday morning broke fine and clear. Harriet and I lounged over breakfast in our night gowns. When she had dressed in her cotton summer frock and cardigan, Harriet went into the garden. I watched her through the window as she opened the shed door. She went inside and was in there rather a long time. A bit old for making a den, I thought, but perhaps she wanted to play at being a young child again. When she came out, she opened the back gate and looked about.

  By the time I had washed the breakfast dishes, she was playing two-ball against the side of the house, the tennis balls slap-slapping against the wall.

  The kitchen clock said quarter past nine.

  Mrs Trevelyan had invited us for lunch. Whatever she had on her mind, it would not be what filled my thoughts: the innocence or guilt of Joseph James Flaherty and Freda Simonson’s distress about the case.

  That was something I could discuss with Bradley Wigglesworth who wanted to talk to me about Freda. Given the strength of his and Freda’s friendship, a chat with Mr Wigglesworth might be a prolonged event. A person with whom an interview might be brief and informative was Father Hartley, the parish priest of the Catholic Church in Settle that Flaherty had attended. I listened to the regular thump of Harriet’s tennis balls against the wall and wondered would it be fair to drag her along. Certainly I did not want to leave her behind. We could be th
ere and back in no time.

  I opened the door and interrupted Harriet’s game. ‘Do you fancy a ride to Settle?’

  She did.

  I popped upstairs and put on my jersey Chanel cardigan suit with a silk blouse. It is in a tan colour that I am very fond of, although I had not brought my usual matching Louis heel shoes and made do with black patent.

  Harriet was ready to go. ‘Is this part of our search for Beth’s brother? Because if it is, I asked Gabriel Cherry to tell Martin he could hide in our shed if he comes when we’re not here.’

  ‘Oh, so that was what you were doing in the shed.’

  ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘Of course. But our visit to Settle isn’t about that.’

  ‘So it’s the case of the long-ago murder?’

  ‘Yes. I would feel guilty about staying in Miss Simonson’s house and not at least trying to find out a little more, as if I owe it to her somehow.’

  ‘Do you mean we’re under obligation because we’re not paying rent?’

  ‘Not that kind of obligation, the do-as-you-would-be-done-by kind. Like picking up a ball that someone didn’t mean to drop. I only hope I won’t be wasting the clergyman’s time.’

  Harriet handed me my satchel. ‘Why would you be?’

  ‘Just a feeling. Look, we don’t have to go. If you prefer to stay in the garden and play ball until it’s time to go to the Trevelyans, that’s all right. This business has waited ten years.’

  ‘Then it’s waited long enough, Auntie. If we don’t look into it, who will?’

  On the way into Settle, Harriet asked me what Freda Simonson was like. ‘I know you and Dr Simonson looked at the albums and scrapbooks because you left them on the sideboard. What did he say about her?’

  ‘That she was ahead of her time, one of the first women to work in an office, and she promoted rational dress, part of that movement.’

  ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘An attempt to show that some clothing for women was restrictive.’

  ‘Do you mean like a liberty bodice?’

  ‘More to do with long skirts and bustles.’

  ‘She wore long skirts. I saw her photograph and I saw the skirts in your wardrobe.’

  ‘She had a divided skirt, too, for riding a bicycle.’

  ‘That explains why there are two bicycles in the shed.’

  As we arrived in Settle, I wondered how to explain my interest in the trial for murder of Joseph James Flaherty. From what I had learned about the Catholic Church, I knew that the people who trotted up to knock on a priest’s door would usually be there to have prayers or a mass said for the sick or the dead, to request a visit to the dying, or to arrange marriage or baptism. It must be rare indeed for someone to come asking about a parishioner convicted and hanged for a foul murder.

  The priest had stood as a character witness for his parishioner and would be unlikely to retract or reinforce his statement for my benefit.

  It was a steep drive up the cobbled street along an old cart road. The motor chugged valiantly. I stopped outside St Mary and St Michael’s, hoping the car would not go rolling back down the hill.

  ‘Will you come in and see the priest with me? There should be somewhere you can wait while I talk to him.’

  ‘No, you go. I’ll sit in the car.’

  ‘Well then it would be better to wait in the church.’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Someone might come and drive off with you. Then what would I tell your mother?’

  She pulled a face, but climbed out. ‘Oh all right, but some churches are spooky. If it’s spooky I’ll walk about till you come back.’

  After leaving Harriet safely in the church, I rang the doorbell of the presbytery and waited.

  A housekeeper opened the door. Having my own housekeeper has taught me never to underestimate the importance of such women. This one was in her early forties, her pale skin finely lined, her eyes hazel triangles pointing to thick brows. A neat curtain of black and grey hair swept her brow under the print turban. She waited for me to state my business. I decided against producing a card. Let her think of me as a potential convert if that might gain me a speedy interview.

  ‘Good morning. I’d like to speak with the parish priest if I may.’

  ‘Who shall I say is calling?’

  ‘My name is Mrs Shackleton. He doesn’t know me.’

  She hesitated for several seconds and in those seconds gave the impression of taking in every inch of me, including parts not usually discerned by the naked eye. She knew I was not of their persuasion. How? I did not know, and perhaps she could not have put it into words either.

  She did not ask me to step inside but did me the courtesy of leaving the door open.

  Her soft-soled shoes making no sound, she disappeared along the tiled hallway.

  A few moments later, she reappeared. ‘Come through, Mrs Shackleton.’

  I entered the vestibule. On my right, a small metal crucifix hung on a nail, a little water filling the font at its base.

  When she reached the far end of the hall, she tapped on an open door. ‘Your visitor, Father.’

  A burly man, about sixty years old, rose to greet me. He was at a desk that faced the wall. A window looked onto the back garden.

  Setting down his pen on a glass pen rest, he indicated a chair by the window. ‘Please. Take a seat. I’m Father Hartley. What can I do for you?’

  I guessed from the sheaf of papers that he had been writing a sermon. Perhaps he liked to do that on a Monday morning and cross it off his list. As I sat down, he turned his chair to face me.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me.’ My mission seemed suddenly absurd. What was to be gained by investigating a long-ago matter when so much in the here and now gave cause for concern? ‘I am staying in Langcliffe, in the house that belonged to the late Miss Freda Simonson.’

  ‘Ah.’ He recognised the name. ‘I heard that the good lady had died.’

  ‘I am a friend of her nephew. He kindly let me have use of the property, which is still full of his aunt’s belongings, and some of her history.’

  ‘Then I have an inkling of what brought you to me.’

  ‘She kept papers concerning the court case of one of your parishioners. She never ceased to regret that she was unable to convince the jury of Mr Flaherty’s innocence. The note she left with her papers indicated to me that she would be sorry if the matter were forgotten.’

  He sighed. ‘A dreadful case. Miss Simonson was staunch to the end and that mattered to the poor boy. She wrote to his mother, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t know, but it fits with everything I have learned about her.’

  ‘One of his workmates came to me for the mother’s address. They are a Dublin family.’

  ‘You gave a character reference for Mr Flaherty.’

  ‘He was one of my flock, a regular attender at the eleven o’clock mass.’

  ‘Eleven o’clock?’

  He smiled. ‘It’s the mass for stay-abeds and for men who drink late on a Saturday. A High Mass, so their penance for drinking too much is that they must sit through several loud hymns and the full-blast organ playing of a man who never touches a drop. Some of the congregation will already have had their bacon, black pudding, sausage and eggs to fortify them, but not all.’

  ‘And which was Mr Flaherty?’

  ‘He was a communicant and so would have eaten and drunk nothing from the previous midnight. I expect he had his breakfast at half past noon and his dinner at four. But you are not here to enquire about the poor soul’s Sunday eating habits.’

  ‘No. I want to know if by the end of the trial you stood by the character reference you gave at the beginning.’

  ‘I did and I do.’

  ‘Did you see him in his last hours?’

  ‘I was permitted to visit him in prison.’

  There was a long pause. Father Hartley must have heard the man’s last confession. He would know whether at the ve
ry end Joseph James Flaherty changed his story. He waited for me to phrase a question in a way that might make it possible for him to answer.

  ‘You say Miss Simonson wrote to Mrs Flaherty with condolences. I wonder if you also wrote to Mr Flaherty’s mother?’

  ‘I did, sending a note to their parish priest who went to comfort the poor woman and the grieving family.’

  ‘May I ask what you said regarding his guilt or innocence?’

  ‘It was one of the most difficult letters — no, the most difficult letter — I have ever written.’ He stood up and went to a filing cabinet, took the key from a jug on top, unlocked the cabinet and opened a drawer. He rummaged through files and produced a manila folder. Turning his back to me, he placed the folder on the desk. From it he produced a flimsy piece of paper, and then resumed his seat.

  ‘You will recall, if you are old enough, Mrs Shackleton, that in April 1916 there was an attack on the post office in Dublin.’

  ‘The Easter Rising.’

  ‘That always seems to me a most unfortunate name for the event, verging on blasphemous.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. The nomenclature is used in the best circles.’ He glanced at the paper. ‘This is what I did not write to Mrs Flaherty because I thought better of it. I didn’t want to risk inflaming a volatile situation. By the time I wrote, the Black and Tans were doing their worst over there.’ He read from his letter. ‘“Your son Joseph was as much a martyr as any of those who took up arms at Easter, but without their guilt.”’ He looked up. ‘If there had not been what everyone now calls the Easter Rising, and if the defence counsel had been as good as King’s Counsel, Joseph would not have gone to the gallows. He did not break the sixth commandment.’

  I knew it, but now the truth was confirmed.

  The priest returned the unsent letter to its folder. ‘But what can be done other than to say masses for his soul? No one would re-open the case.’

  ‘I could try and find out who did murder Mr Holroyd.’

  He frowned.

  I explained. ‘I work as a private investigator.’

  He sighed. This was more than he wanted to know. ‘It troubles me still, Mrs Shackleton. I dare say Miss Simonson’s peace of mind was shattered because of the injustice. None of us understand the ways of the Almighty. Perhaps what happened saved Joseph from a worse fate, though I cannot imagine what that might be. Conscription may have been about to catch up with him. Workers from the kiln did not stay untouched by the war. I can hear him now. He was stoical after his conviction. I think part of him did not accept the inevitable would happen and that he hoped for a reprieve until the very last moment. We believe in miracles, you see, but there was no miracle for Joe Flaherty.’