‘What were his words? You said he was stoical.’
He opened his hands in an expansive gesture. ‘He was an Irishman, so full of words, but at the end, he’d almost run out. He said, “Tell the mammy… Oh you’ll know what to say, Father. Tell her I send her a smile and a chuck of the cheek.”’
A tightness gripped my chest. So many young men had no opportunity for goodbyes, including my own husband. Wartime was the excuse for that, but here was a situation quite different — a man who should have been safe. He had worked hard, crossed the sea to find employment, sent money home to his mother. If he was innocent, hanging him was as foul a deed as the stabbing of Rufus Holroyd.
The priest continued. ‘Something else he said in the cell, I forget the exact words, but he thought the truth would come out and he would be vindicated.’
So this then was the reason for fate bringing me to Langcliffe. I felt the same kind of shiver as when I had stood on the spot where Mr Holroyd’s life ebbed away.
That was the end of my interview. I rose and thanked the priest. ‘I’ll leave you to your sermon.’
He gave a small rueful smile. ‘I am to declare from the pulpit that the General Strike is a sin.’
He rang a bell. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Shackleton. I will remember you in my prayers.’
On the instant, his housekeeper popped her turbaned head around the door.
The housekeeper walked me to the end of the hall. Pausing with her hand on the doorknob, she gave me a knowing look. ‘Sure the only thing to do for the poor fellow now is to offer a mass for the repose of his soul. That’d be five shillings. Of course there is always participation in the perpetual masses of the Capuchin Fathers, which costs a little more but comes with a fine certificate suitable for framing.’
I went back into the church where I had left Harriet. She was contemplating the altar and a fine array of candles whose flames had increased in number since I left her there.
‘Has someone been lighting candles?’
‘I lit them. They look nice, don’t you think?’
‘They do. They give off a splendid flicker.’
‘I lit twelve. It says a penny each.’
‘And did you have a shilling?’
‘No but I lit one for every three minutes you were gone.’
‘Why?’
‘Just to do it. I’m good at time you know. First I count it, and then I know it. And I just thought, wouldn’t it be odd if Dad was entirely wrong and there is a heaven and a little stained-glass window for him to peep through and see me lighting candles. He’d laugh. He’d say, Don’t waste good money.’
I took two sixpences from my purse. ‘Here. Put this in the slot.’
The sound of the coins falling into the box broke the silence. ‘I’ll call it a baker’s dozen.’ She lit another candle. ‘Unlucky thirteen. This is my own money, Dad, if you’re listening.’ She dropped in a penny that made more of a clatter than the sixpences.
‘Leave a few candles for someone else.’
Shuffling footsteps came from the back of the church. ‘Come on,’ I whispered. ‘Let’s go out into the world and find a teashop.’
We left the church. ‘I’ve been inside long enough, Auntie. I want to be outside, by the river.’
‘All right, as you like. You’ve been very patient.’
In a bakery, I bought her a vanilla slice. She lost weight in hospital and it wouldn’t hurt for her to put on a few pounds. I would have liked a hot drink but settled for half-penny drinks from the baker’s assistant. It was a very sweet drink, suspiciously pink. Harriet finished first. I finished mine, not wanting to insult the concoction’s creator. We handed back the glasses.
On the river bank, Harriet almost polished off her vanilla slice before gaining the attention of a group of mallards.
‘Are you going to tell me what the priest said?’
‘Joseph Flaherty was innocent.’
‘Do you think it will be hard to prove?’
‘Very hard.’
‘Can we do it?’
‘I don’t know.’
She scattered crumbs from her skirt. ‘You said it’s not done to read other people’s letters. You didn’t say anything about not reading what someone keeps in a shoe box.’
‘You looked at Aunt Freda’s papers?’
‘I’m your assistant, aren’t I?’
‘Didn’t it upset you?’
‘Are you afraid I’ll have bad dreams?’
‘Yes.’
She thought for a moment. ‘It was such a long time ago, and it’s all over now.’
Ten years is an impossibly long time for a fourteen-year-old, almost a lifetime. It felt wrong to have involved her, but she seemed oddly cheerful about it.
‘I’m sorry, Harriet. Our holiday wasn’t meant to be like this. If you like, we could go somewhere else.’
‘Where?’
‘The seaside, or up to the Lake District.’
‘How, when there’s a rail strike and petrol shortage? Didn’t you read the newspaper banners as we came here?’
‘Yes I did.’
‘It’s all right. I don’t mind that we’re investigating.’ She sounded pleased. ‘I’d rather we did that.’
‘Than what?’
‘Well, my aunt Barbara May teaches me to knit. Grandma showed me tatting. If you’d insisted I have a go at that awful old tapestry, I’d have screamed. But investigating suits me.’
‘So we’re a team, Harriet.’
‘I hope I haven’t gone wrong already.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Martin might think the shed is a trap. I mean, if you think about the word detective, all you need do is change one letter and it becomes defective. Odd, isn’t it, how one tiny letter can change something?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Is murder the worst thing in the world would you say?’
‘It’s a terrible thing, for the person who can never come back, for their family, and for the one who did the murder, and their family. There’s no undoing, there’s no putting right.’
She was thinking about her father. I should not have left her in the church to brood and count time and look at flickering candles and the filtered light from stained-glass windows. In that way she has of jumping from one subject to another, so that the logic is not straight away apparent, she said, ‘Do you believe my dad would have been pleased about the big strike, the miners’ strike?’
‘Yes. He would. He would have hoped for changes, perhaps even a revolution.’
‘What kind of revolution? Like the French Revolution where they chopped off heads?’
‘No, but a time when everything alters, and new ideas take over and different people run things.’
‘Who?’
‘It depends who comes out on top.’
‘Mam doesn’t talk about my dad, not ever.’
‘But she hasn’t forgotten him.’
‘No.’
‘Does Austin remember?’
‘Oh yes, but he doesn’t understand. He has bad dreams. He wets the bed.’
‘Still?’
‘Yes, and he can’t read.’
‘Do you mean he doesn’t like to read?’
‘No, it’s not that. He looks at a page and it makes no sense and I think it’s because nothing makes sense. He lives in a confusion.’
‘I’ll talk to your mam about him.’
‘I wish you would. She didn’t know he couldn’t read till I told her.’
‘Come on. We’d better go back to Langcliffe or we’ll be late for lunch. Mrs Trevelyan expects us.’
Even though Harriet was now officially my assistant, I would not tell her that Mrs Trevelyan wanted me to take on an assignment. I had a feeling that it could involve something that might corrupt a budding detective of tender years.
Fourteen
By the time we arrived back in Langcliffe after visiting Father Hartley, I was glad that we were to lunch with Mrs Trevelyan, even if
her main purpose in inviting me was to impart a sorry tale about finding herself in a difficult situation.
I had hoped our trunk would have arrived and was sorry to see that it had not. There was supposed to be a skeleton service on the railways.
I changed into a day dress and switched gloves and hat. Harriet kept on her print frock. She did not want to go.
‘Auntie, Mrs Trevelyan invited you. Can’t I stay here, in case Martin comes?’
‘I’d like you to meet Susannah Trevelyan. She’s your age.’
She pulled a face. ‘Do I have to? She doesn’t seem to want to meet me.’
‘It’s not done to make an engagement and break it.’
‘I didn’t make the engagement.’
‘Give Susannah a chance. Perhaps you’ll make friends.’
‘What if she’s a terrible snob, or spends all her time parading her belongings and showing off?’
‘Don’t make up your mind before you’ve met the girl. She may be lonely, with no girls of her own age to play with.’
‘There are plenty of girls her age. We saw them on Saturday, soppy articles in white frocks. She didn’t stay to talk to anyone, including us.’
‘Perhaps she doesn’t like soppy girls in white frocks, or she may be shy and need someone to make the first move.’
‘Why doesn’t she go to that school with the rest of them? Dr Simonson said she has a governess.’
‘I don’t know, but come on. At least try. We won’t need to see them again if we don’t want to. Bring your camera. You can take pictures. Take some of the village so your mam will see where you stayed. She’ll like that.’
‘You were going to show me how to do it properly. I think I did it wrong when we were by the waterfall.’
‘You can’t go wrong with that little camera.’
‘Everyone who knows how to do things says you can’t go wrong. I can.’
‘Come on! Wash your hands and let’s go.’
‘My hair…’
‘Looks just fine.’
As she washed her hands, I picked up the keys and locked the back door, as I would lock the front. It was not that I expected thieves, not in this generally law-abiding village, but I felt a duty to Aunt Freda to keep her belongings, particularly her papers, private.
Moments later, we were outside.
‘Take a photograph now, Harriet. Your mam would like to see Lilac Cottage.’
‘Oh, all right!’ She spoke cheerily — anything to delay the visit to Susannah Trevelyan.
I had some sympathy. It can be difficult for a child to be under orders to make friends, as I well remember from my own childhood. ‘Take out your camera then.’ I had bought her the latest Butchers watch pocket carbine, very good for outdoor pictures, taking daylight loading roll films and with a simple high-speed shutter. ‘Light is the main thing. When you take a picture, you are drawing with light. That’s the meaning of photography. Where is the sun now?’
She turned and looked at the sky. ‘It’s there, but there are clouds.’
‘Clouds sometimes soften the light without obscuring it. There’s enough light for you to take a good photograph. Position yourself so that you can see the whole of Aunt Freda’s house.’
‘It’s the doctor’s house now isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I was just thinking of the person who lived here longest.’
‘Stand by the gate, Auntie Kate.’
‘No!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it will look as if I’m laying claim to the place.’
She gave a sly smile. ‘And aren’t you? Isn’t that why Dr Simonson invited us here, hoping you’ll approve?’
‘Don’t be cheeky. Just look through the view finder. Try to make sure you capture the whole house evenly, and then click the shutter.’
She did so. ‘Is that it?’
‘That’s it. Well done. Now let’s go see Mrs Trevelyan and Susannah.’
‘I just need to go to the post office. I have to send a postcard home.’
‘Go there with Susannah. It will give you something to do. We need to be there at noon.’
Threlfall Hall was the grandest house in the village, surrounded by a high wall and tall gates. A gardener with rickety legs and lop-sided walk saw us approaching and came to open the gate, doffing his cap in greeting. Harriet gave him a cautious smile. When we were a few yards along the gravel path, she said, ‘How can you tell whether a person is being polite or subservient?’
‘Where do you get thoughts like that from? Why shouldn’t he be polite?’
‘My dad said there is a difference between touching your cap and doffing it. I thought he was doffing.’
‘Well he may have been, to show us respect as strangers.’
‘If he doffs too much, he’s subservient.’
I had always known that Harriet would have to live with the dreadful experience of finding her father dead. But I had not guessed that the chip her father carried on his shoulder about the injustices of the world would be so readily taken up by Harriet. That must be part of the reason she hesitated to make friends with Susannah, the ‘posh’ girl. I refrained from giving my lecture about not judging people hastily. She had heard it all before.
Mrs Trevelyan received us in the drawing room. She was wearing a pretty floral morning dress, fine stockings and cream shoes. Susannah sat in the window seat, reading a book. Why did I have the feeling that she might be just as reluctant to make friends with Harriet as Harriet with her?
‘Well, isn’t this nice,’ Mrs Trevelyan said, by way of putting us at our ease. ‘Susannah, come and say hello to our guests.’
Susannah hadn’t noticed us. She looked up from her book, blankly, as if trying to fit us into whatever story she had just been reading. She closed her book, but kept a finger in the page. ‘Hello.’
The girls were introduced and looked at each other cautiously.
‘It’s such a fine day that you and Harriet should speak to cook about giving you a picnic lunch in the garden. That would be nice wouldn’t it? Cook has made one of her special cakes and there’s dandelion and burdock.’
‘Could it be bacon sandwiches?’
‘Well no, and Susannah, it would be a good idea to put your book away now.’
Susannah placed a bookmark in her page but did not put the book down. ‘But could it be bacon sandwiches?’ The girl was bargaining. She would not be out of place on a strike committee.
A rangy, olive-skinned girl, she had a languorous way of moving, or rather not moving as she held her book with great care.
I could see that Harriet, who also likes bacon sandwiches, was ready to put in her two pennyworth. I glared at her.
‘Oh very well, run along and tell cook, and take Harriet with you and show her the grounds.’
Susannah put down her book. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll be interested in seeing the grounds?’
‘I don’t know. Depends what’s there.’
When they had left the room, Mrs Trevelyan said, ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Shackleton. Susannah can be an awkward child.’
‘Then perhaps they will get on, or at least understand each other if they don’t.’
Bertie Trevelyan must have been alerted to our arrival because he tapped gently on the door and popped his head round. ‘Am I interrupting, ladies?’
‘No darling, come in. You’re just in time to pour as a drink.’
‘Lovely to see you here, Mrs Shackleton. Sherry?’
‘Yes please.’
He poured our drinks. Bertie strikes me as a most amiable man, not at all good-looking in a conventional way, with his high thin forehead and sharp nose, but with a charming manner. He presented the sherry and asked how Harriet and I were enjoying our stay, offering far too many suggestions for places we should visit.
I told him about our picnic at Catrigg Force. Since neither of the Trevelyans mentioned the unfortunate Farmer Murgatroyd, neither did I. They were determined to keep the tone light and jovial
.
‘I’m so glad you are friends with Dr Simonson, Mrs Shackleton. He is a fine doctor and I have reason to be grateful to him.’
‘I believe he treated your boys?’
‘And Susannah. But more than that, he saved my life when we were boys.’
‘Oh?’
‘We were at the village school here together. As boys do, we went swimming somewhere we shouldn’t, remote, dangerous and of course very chilly. I developed cramp and went underwater twice. Lucian saved my life. No one had ever taught him, but he’d read how to do it in Mee’s Encyclopaedia.’
His wife looked at him, surprised. ‘Darling, you never told me that.’
‘He wouldn’t want me to, and please don’t let on, Mrs Shackleton, but I thought you would like to know the kind of man he is — if that’s not too presumptuous of me. Modest, clever, keeps his wits about him.’
This was the incident that Lucian had omitted to describe when telling me about his sudden realisation that he would be a doctor and save lives. The story impressed me deeply. Often it is not what someone reveals that tells much about them, but what they withhold. My already-high regard for Lucian went up a notch or two.
When Harriet and Susannah came into the room, it was clear that they had become friends.
‘Harriet has a camera,’ Susannah told her parents. ‘She’s going to show me how to take photographs. I’ll be her first subject.’
Bertie nodded his approval. ‘Good, good.’ He made a fuss of Harriet, admired her camera and told her where in the garden would be a good spot — by the summerhouse, or the fountain. He excused himself, regretting not joining us for lunch, but he would be meeting with his land agent in Settle.
A Death in the Dales Page 13