‘And so it does. He is afraid she will make unsuitable friendships.’
I guessed that Bertie worried that the child he had accepted as his daughter might run true to type, fall in love with a village boy and make an unsuitable marriage.
Mrs Trevelyan offered me more apple cake. I declined.
She sighed. ‘Why do the wrong people die first? I wish Gouthwaite had suffered the heart attack instead of Bill Murgatroyd. That would have made everything so much simpler.’
This gave me the opening I needed. I wanted Lucian to know what Mrs Murgatroyd had told me about her husband’s symptoms. I had no idea what kind of post mortem examination would be carried out. If Mrs Murgatroyd had accidentally poisoned her husband through over-enthusiastic medication, that would be a disaster. It was not for me to judge or jump to conclusions, but simply to know the death was properly investigated.
‘Have you heard any news of the post mortem? Are they saying it was a heart attack?’
‘Well, no, but that’s the most usual cause.’
‘I suppose so.’ I took a breath. ‘Mrs Trevelyan, do you have a telephone here?’
‘No, I’m sorry we don’t. Bertie won’t have one. He says we have enough interruptions in town without making ourselves entirely accessible here. They do have one at the post office.’
‘I’d prefer not to go to the post office. If I write a note to Dr Simonson, do you have someone who might deliver it to the surgery in Settle?’
‘Yes of course.’
‘If Mrs Murgatroyd can be given some indication of when her husband’s body will be brought home, she will feel a little less restless.’
She sent for notepaper, envelopes and pen and poured more tea as I wrote my note to Lucian. I should hate not to mention my suspicions regarding poisoning and create a situation where the unfortunate man’s body had to be opened up twice. Lucian would no doubt see me as a terribly interfering sort of woman, but if he did not already have me down as such then it was time for him to be enlightened.
Dear Lucian
My main reason for writing is because Mr Murgatroyd is to be buried in his Sunday best. Will it be better to take the suit to the hospital, so that his widow does not have to see the post mortem scars?
I spoke to Mrs Murgatroyd this morning. I am sure she already told you that her husband complained of nausea, dizziness, fatigue, a fluttering sensation and seeing a halo of light around the base of a lamp. I mention this in case in her confusion after his death she failed to fully report his symptoms.
Kate
Of course he would know very well that my main reason for writing was the suspicion that Mr Murgatroyd had been poisoned.
I wrote Dr Lucian Simonson’s name and Settle address on the envelope and the words Private and Urgent. That would set tongues wagging among the Threlfall Hall staff but there was nothing I could do about that.
Thinking it best to give some reason for my urgent note to Lucian, I told Mrs Trevelyan part of the truth — that it might be kind to have Mr Murgatroyd laid out at the hospital rather than taken home with his stitches on display.
Our lunch at an end, Mrs Trevelyan walked me to the gate.
‘You’ll let me know just as soon as you hear from Gabriel?’
‘I will. Thank you for letting me ride your beautiful horse.’
‘Gabriel recognised Miss Shady of course.’
‘He did.’
She took a breath, ready to speak, more about the affair, I guessed. But she changed her mind.
‘Susannah told the gardener she and Harriet would go as far as Lilac Cottage. Would you mind if Harriet sees her back to the gate? It’s Bertie you see. He’ll be back soon and be terribly worried about her being on the loose.’
It was an odd request, given that Susannah was the local girl and Harriet the stranger. I wondered whether Mrs Trevelyan thought that her husband was punishing Susannah because he could not openly admit his wife’s infidelity.
I mentioned something that had slipped my mind until now. ‘Dr Simonson asked me if I would enquire about who might want his aunt’s clothing. Do you know of anyone in the village I might approach?’
She thought for a moment. ‘It’s very inconvenient to have a vicar without a wife who would know these things. He does have a housekeeper but she is rather unsavoury and would probably pass the lot to her sister for sale on a market stall. Ask Mrs Holroyd. She chairs the village women’s committee and is always worthily knocking at the door for something or other.’
‘Oh dear, I already made the mistake of asking Mrs Holroyd. She gave me the impression that no one would want Miss Simonson’s clothing because she was a witness for the defence in the murder trial.’
‘How tiresome of her.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll think of something else.’
We parted and I walked back alongside the village green.
Walking back to Lilac Cottage felt slightly unreal. This seemingly friendly village had acquired a cold shoulder, and bared it. Lucian in his enthusiasm and love for the place had been protected from this different view by his kindly aunt and by inhabitants who remembered him as a boy and held him in affection and esteem.
An elderly woman tending a garden looked up as I walked by. I wished her good afternoon but hurried on, asking myself, Were you a person who cut Miss Simonson dead? Did you feel the same as Mrs Holroyd? Surely Aunt Freda must have had some friend who stood by her?
As I reached the cottage gate, someone called to me.
I turned to see a young woman of about twenty, neatly dressed in black skirt, white blouse and dark waistcoat, her hair centre-parted and looped over her ears giving her the look of someone much older. She walked towards me but did not speak again until we were within a couple of feet of each other.
‘I’m looking for Mrs Shackleton.’
‘Yes, that’s me.’
‘I’m Monica from the post office. Someone has telephoned for you and will ring again shortly, a Mr Sykes.’
‘Thank you. How “shortly” will he ring again?’
‘I said it would not take me long to come and find you. He’ll pl ace the call again in ten minutes.’
‘Then I’d better come with you.’
As we walked together, I went through a dozen possibilities of what may be wrong. Something had happened to my mother or father. Mrs Sugden had taken ill. Sykes had been approached to accept a sensitive case and needed to consult.
Back in the post office, Monica went behind the counter. The postmistress greeted me politely. I wondered what Sykes had said to make them both so eager that I should interrupt their working day to take a telephone call.
I waited what seemed an age for the telephone to ring.
When it did ring, it made me jump.
The postmistress answered and then called me behind the counter.
She and her assistant, almost too deliberately, showed no interest whatsoever in my call but could not help but overhear my side of the conversation.
‘Mrs Shackleton, Sykes here, sorry to disturb you.’
‘That’s all right. What is it?’
‘I retrieved your trunk from the railway station. You’ll know that the train drivers are on strike.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I had read this in the hastily produced government newspaper.
‘There is a skeleton staff but I’d rather not trust them with your luggage. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll bring it out there myself today.’
I made some neutral remark, to give me time to think.
My thoughts began to whirl. The first instinct was to say I would manage without extra luggage, but Mrs Trevelyan had hinted at supper, Lucian wanted me to meet Dr McKinley and of course there would be a funeral for Mr Murgatroyd.
Sykes took advantage of my pause. ‘Your letter came by second post. I straight away looked into that old assizes matter you mentioned.’
I had forgotten that I had asked him to take a look at the records of Joseph James
Flaherty’s trial.
It would be good to have Sykes here, though I did not imagine he could have learned much more than I had gleaned from Aunt Freda’s papers and my conversation with the priest. All I had to say was yes or no. He was offering, in spite of the petrol shortage, and so there must be something that mattered other than my extra clothes. He was solid, reliable and I could trust him. I might even ask him to try and interview Joseph Flaherty’s friend. He would certainly make better progress with Mrs Holroyd than I had. Then there was the mysterious death of Mr Murgatroyd, and the disappearance of Martin Young.
‘How is the work going?’ I asked. The postmistress was listening. For all she knew I might be enquiring about having a garden wall built or the ceiling re-painted.
‘Everything is complete and up to date. The insurance business won’t come to court but the person in question has his marching orders. The missing dog is safely returned to the bosom of its family. It’s as if the world has realised that Mrs Shackleton has left town.’
‘I’m glad to hear everything is under control.’
‘To tell the truth, I’d be glad of the diversion of bringing the trunk to you.’
Decisiveness seized me. ‘Come tomorrow. If for any reason we are not at home, let yourself in.’
There was a brief pause. Either my answer was not what he had expected, or he noticed something in my tone of voice that told him of my unease. I needed to warn him we may be working. Without giving anything away to the postmistress or her assistant, I found the words to give him a great big hint that I needed his help. ‘You may want to spend a little time here. The landscape is most interesting and worthy of investigation.’
‘Ah.’ His response contained all the understanding I needed.
‘Of course, only if family matters allow.’
I always felt slightly guilty about Rosie Sykes, especially when I dragged her husband away for any length of time.
‘A change of scene will be most convenient.’
‘Good. You have the address.’
‘Mrs Sugden is waving it under my nose as we speak.’
‘Say hello to her.’
‘I will. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’
Only when I had hung up the receiver did I wonder where I would put Mr Sykes, and how to explain his presence to Lucian.
Eighteen
Back at Lilac Cottage, I walked up the path and looked for the key under the plant pot. It was not there. Harriet must be back. Slowly, I walked through the hall and into the kitchen.
Through the window, I saw the tops of three young heads. Harriet and Susannah were seated on the garden bench. Sandwiched between them was a third head, dark, tousled and male.
I opened the kitchen door and said hello.
‘Look who’s turned up, Auntie! It’s Martin, Beth’s brother.’
The unkempt boy cast a suspicious glance in my direction as he politely came to his feet. The resemblance to Beth was clear. The fine tidemark on his neck showed that he had washed his face and hands. Harriet had probably seen to that, being used to bossing her brother. His clothes were filthy.
‘Hello, Martin. I’m very glad you’re here. We were all worried about you. Have you eaten?’
‘I have now, thank you.’
All three were looking at me. Harriet spoke. ‘Can Martin stay here for now?’
I hesitated, wondering what might be for the best.
Harriet pressed her request. ‘By the time he’s seen Beth, it’ll be too late for him to go back to Pendleton, especially on his own.’
Susannah said shyly, ‘If not it’s all right, he can come home with me. We have plenty of rooms where no one ever goes and it could be a secret.’
Susannah made me smile. Bertie Trevelyan had gone to such lengths to prevent Susannah from mixing with her social inferiors. Now she was hoping to smuggle just such a one into their house.
‘Well perhaps since Martin has landed here, he should stay for now. You can have the loft until we decide what to do, and I had better let the police know we’ve found you.’
Mistake. I should not have mentioned the police. His eyes under their long lashes filled with alarm. ‘Are the bobbies looking for me?’
‘Probably not. They may be keeping a look-out because I reported you missing to Settle police station.’
‘I don’t want to be sent back to the farm.’
‘No one will send you back. Anyone who tries will have me to deal with. There is just one condition.’
He tilted his head. ‘What?’
‘I’m going to run a bath for you and while it’s running, Harriet and Susannah will take you up to the loft where you’ll find some of the clothes Dr Simonson had as a boy. Then you won’t give your sister a fright. Pick out some trousers and a shirt that’ll fit. While you’re at it, look for a nightshirt and some socks. And take your boots off and leave them on the step.’
‘I don’t need a bath.’
‘Yes you do. Go on, the three of you.’
We trooped upstairs, Martin meekly following the girls, with me at the rear to cut off his escape.
I turned on the geyser and began to fill the bath, glad that Aunt Freda had at least run to some modern conveniences other than the unused gas cooker. I placed a tablet of soap on the side of the bath and hung a fresh towel on the wooden rail.
There was much noise from upstairs as the three marched about the loft. When they laughed, I guessed they had come across items of clothing that they regarded as antique.
‘Can he take whatever he wants?’ Harriet called down.
‘Anything that fits.’
When Martin shut himself in the bathroom, I asked the girls to buy a toothbrush and some more groceries. Buying groceries was not something I usually had much to do with. The thought of planning meals across a week had seemed a good idea when we set off on Saturday. Now, with my thoughts on Aunt Freda, the murder of Mr Holroyd, the innocent Joseph James Flaherty, and the puzzle of Mrs Trevelyan’s missing letters, I could not quite bring myself to the point of knowing how to organise food for this evening, much less a week.
In the past, I had criticised my sister Mary Jane for giving Harriet too many jobs. Now I was in danger of doing the same.
Harriet solved the immediate difficulty by asking, ‘What shall we have for tea?’
I tossed the question back to her. ‘What do you fancy?’
‘I noticed the butcher does a meat and potato pie and there’s tinned peas in the pantry.’
‘Perfect!’ I gave her my change purse. Her ideas gave me inspiration. ‘And buy some cakes, a curd tart if they have one, and an egg custard.’
‘We’ll leave a message for Beth to come.’ Harriet picked up the shopping basket.
Poor little rich girl Susannah looked so pleased at the prospect of running an errand that I felt quite mean telling her that she was wanted at home, and that Harriet would walk her back.
Never have I seen dismay flood a girl so quickly. ‘Well then I won’t be able to say goodbye to Martin.’
‘You’ll see him again. He’ll be here tomorrow.’
I watched them go.
Not long after, Martin came downstairs, pink and shining from his bath and looking much better, if self-conscious, in tweed britches, long socks and a twill shirt. In spite of sleeping rough for two nights, he looked perky.
The two of us were seated at the kitchen table. His hair was still a little damp from bathing.
‘Was it very bad at the Gouthwaites, Martin?’
He nodded.
‘Was he violent?’ I knew the answer before I asked the question.
‘Aye, and he was nuts with it. When I thought I’d done him in, part of me was glad.’
‘What about Mrs Gouthwaite?’
‘There’s summat up with her. She doesn’t speak. She cries a lot. I think he knocks her about.’
‘Didn’t anyone stick up for you? What about Gabriel Cherry?’
‘He told old Gouthwaite
to lay off me and he didn’t hit me when Gabriel was there.’
So Gabriel Cherry had tried to protect the boy.
‘It’s unfortunate you were sent there. I’m sorry you had such a terrible time.’
‘I’m not off back.’
‘Of course not.’
‘They’ll try to send me back.’
‘No one will try to send you back. It would have been better had you gone to Murgatroyds’ farm.’
‘He was all right to me, and Miss Murgatroyd was nice. I only once saw Mrs Murgatroyd. She gave me a boiled sweet.’
‘Well perhaps you could make the change and go there. They could do with a good lad like you.’
‘I don’t want to go there, or anywhere round here. Besides, old Gouthwaite would see me. I broke his leg so he’d be out to get me.’
‘He’d have a job on to catch you after you saw to his leg for him.’
This made him laugh, but not for long. ‘I’m not off anywhere near there. He’d send his missis. She does his bidding. She clouted me a few times.’
‘There are going to be changes. It’s likely the Gouthwaites will leave the farm, and the area.’
‘Good riddance. Who’ll take over, Mr Murgatroyd?’
So he did not know. ‘I’m not sure what will happen. You didn’t hear about Mr Murgatroyd?’
‘What about him?’
‘Sadly, he died.’ I should not be telling him this. He had gone through enough.
Martin stared at me in disbelief. ‘He can’t be dead. I only saw him on Saturday.’
‘When on Saturday, what time?’
‘Early evening.’
‘Where did you see him?’
‘Going in to the Gouthwaites’ farm.’
‘But you’d run off by then.’
He reddened.
‘I didn’t know whether I’d killed the old fella. I went back to look where he fell. There was marks in the mud where he’d been, so I didn’t dream it, but he was gone. I thought someone would come looking for me, and I thought is he dead? There might be police and people searching. But I’m good at dodging about, hiding. I saw Mr Murgatroyd going in the house.’
A Death in the Dales Page 17