A Death in the Dales

by Frances Brody

‘I don’t suppose you know what time that was?’

  ‘Well before dark, before suppertime. I waited by the pigsty, waiting for him to come out. I thought if Gouthwaite wasn’t really dead, he’d come to the door with him. If he was dead, there’d be other people. There always is when someone dies, they come round like flies.’

  So why had Murgatroyd visited Gouthwaite? Perhaps he had wanted to make his peace, to express his regret that the lease was not to be renewed.

  ‘Did you speak to Mr Murgatroyd when he came out?’

  ‘I thought about it. I nearly did. But when I saw him coming out, he wasn’t walking straight, as if they’d had a drink together. When people drink together they get on don’t they? I thought if Mr Gouthwaite wasn’t dead, the pair of them must have been yattering about me, and how to catch me.’

  The corners of his mouth turned down.

  ‘It was unlikely to be about you, Martin. They had things to talk about concerning the future of the farms.’

  It was after Harriet, Martin and I had finished our meat and potato pie that Harriet went to see who was at the front door.

  Beth came into the kitchen like a whirlwind. ‘Martin, where’ve you been? I was that worried.’

  He shrugged. ‘Here and there. There was no need to worry. I can look after meself.’

  I stood up. ‘I’ll leave you two to talk.’

  It was as if she had not heard me. ‘What you doing here? You know where I live. Come on, Martin. Mrs Holroyd wants to meet you and so does Madge who I share a room with. You’ll like them. Mrs Holroyd’s just putting tea on the table. Only thing is you can’t stay there.’

  ‘I’ve eaten.’

  She dragged Martin to his feet and then turned to me. ‘He’ll have to come back here to sleep. Mrs Holroyd would put him up if she could.’

  Martin protested. ‘Someone’ll see me and I’ll be in bother.’

  ‘No one’ll see you…’

  ‘They might. There was someone at the workhouse window staring and…’

  She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. ‘I’ve a wage coming in. You’re my brother. Anyone tries to interfere and they’ve me and my friend Madge to deal with.’

  ‘I’m not being looked after by lassies.’

  ‘Since when? Don’t be a mardy.’

  He stood his ground. ‘I’m stopping here. Mrs Shackleton said I can.’

  When she realised he would not budge, Beth reluctantly gave in. I left them in the kitchen to talk and found Harriet in the parlour, looking out of the window.

  ‘I’m glad Martin has decided to stay here. You’ll make sure no one takes him away?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘I feel sorry for Beth that Martin’s dead set on going back to Pendleton.’

  ‘It’s not so very far. They’ll be able to visit on Sundays in the fine weather when the days are long.’

  ‘I suppose so. Oh and did you see that letter that came for you?’

  ‘No.’

  She went into the hall. With the door open, I could hear voices from the kitchen. Beth had calmed down.

  Harriet brought me the envelope. It looked official and was therefore quite unwelcome. The letter had the merit of brevity, to wit:

  Madam,

  By virtue of this my Order as one of His Majesty’s Coroners for the County of Yorkshire you are hereby required to appear before me and the jury on Wednesday, 5 May at ten o’clock in the morning in the Court in the Parish of Giggleswick, and then and there to give evidence on His Majesty’s behalf touching the death of William George Murgatroyd.

  Dated the third day of May, 1926.

  T J Beale,

  Coroner

  I don’t know why I had not expected this summons. Given the twist of fate yesterday morning, it was I who told Mrs Murgatroyd that her husband was dead. As if she did not already know.

  What gave me the shivers was the similarity between this coroner’s letter and the one received by Freda Simonson just over ten years ago. The wording was almost identical and the signature the same. It was as if something was starting all over again, with the possibility for misunderstandings and faulty conclusions.

  It was late. Harriet had long ago gone to bed with a copy of The Secret Garden borrowed from Susannah. Martin was ensconced in the jumble that was the loft.

  I let the fire in the kitchen range die down and brought a shovelful of burning coals into the parlour where I continued to read and reread Aunt Freda’s papers about the trial. By now, I felt I knew Freda Simonson. She was becoming so familiar to me that I half expected to see her walk into the room. Her gold-rimmed reading glasses were in the top drawer of her dressing table, alongside her face cream. She liked Pears’ soap in the bathroom and carbolic in the kitchen. Her recipes were in a tin on the kitchen dresser, knitting patterns in the parlour corner cupboard with the tapestry bag that held balls of wool and knitting needles. She had lived simply and was a woman of many skills. The typed report of the judge’s summing up was entirely without error. At commercial college, she would have earned full marks for this and had her typing displayed on the wall.

  So absorbed was I that I forgot to hope that Lucian would call and tell me the results of the post mortem on Farmer Murgatroyd. The gentle tap on the door startled me. I expected Lucian to come in, but when the door did not open I went to see, taking the precaution of returning the papers to the cupboard.

  At first, in the dim light, I did not recognise the tall figure, not until he spoke and apologised for disturbing me so late. It was Gabriel Cherry. He dangled a pair of rabbits in one hand, and a lantern in the other. Under his arm was a parcel, wrapped in newspaper.

  ‘Come in.’

  He hesitated, and then held out the rabbits. ‘I brought you these, as well as what you were after for Victoria.’

  I am not an entirely squeamish person — what former nurse could be? — but there is something about furry dead creatures that makes me queasy.

  ‘Why don’t you step inside, and I’ll show you the pantry. There’ll be a hook there.’

  ‘If I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘You’re not disturbing me. Do come in.’

  He hesitated for a moment before extinguishing his lantern, setting it on the doorstep and following me through the hall into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m sorry to call so late.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  The kitchen was gently lit by the low fire and the gaslight. I opened the pantry door and stepped aside, but not quickly enough to prevent a black furry rabbit brushing against my arm. They are too similar to cats, especially the black ones. It made me think of my cat, Sookie, who has that same glossy black coat. That’s why I don’t like them.

  When he had hung his offering on the hook behind the door, I closed it firmly. ‘Come through, Mr Cherry.’

  ‘Well all right. There was something I wanted to ask you.’

  I led him into the parlour and waved at the chair. ‘Please sit down. I’ll be with you in just a moment.’

  If I offered him refreshment, he would refuse. I had put a plate ready for Lucian with pork pie, cheese, pickles and bread. The kettle was off the boil and Aunt Freda’s sherry did not seem appropriate. Fortunately, I travel with emergency brandy, and poured him a glass.

  I brought in the tray.

  Gabriel was looking into the fire and turned as I entered. ‘Oh there was no need.’

  ‘You’ve come a long way.’

  ‘How did you know I’d come?’

  I smiled. ‘I didn’t. But this is here anyway so please, tuck in.’

  ‘Much appreciated. I didn’t eat much today as it turned out.’ First, he removed the newspaper from the parcel that he had carried under his arm. He screwed the newspaper into a tight ball and put it in the coal scuttle. It had covered a biscuit barrel in antique brass, about ten inches high and four or five inches wide. Inside was a removable glass jar, etched with a delicate pattern of bows and ovals. It contained letters,
still in envelopes, bent to fit the shape of the jar. ‘I kept them in here in case of rain or damp.’ The biscuit barrel was battered and discoloured. He noticed me looking at it. ‘I buried it while I was away, and dug it up when I came back. But it was all over by then.’ He placed the biscuit barrel on the hearth rug between us. ‘They are all here, her letters.’

  ‘Thank you. Was it difficult to find them?’

  ‘No. Selina Gouthwaite does not know I found her hidey hole. I never go in the house these days, haven’t since I came back from the war, but I know every nook and cranny from being a boy — all the secret places. I went in while she was in the cowshed and he was sleeping. They are such a pair.’

  ‘Why did you come back there after the war?’

  He shrugged. ‘I didn’t, not straight away. My mind had turned mercifully blank for a little while. My body knew the way back to the Parish of Langcliffe and that was where my legs brought me. I felt as if someone else had come back, someone I was watching, and me or the watcher was telling me what a fool I was to come back. But I didn’t know what else to do. And they welcomed me with open arms.’

  ‘And you stayed.’

  ‘There was a great separateness from everything that had gone on before. Nothing was the same again.’ He looked at the letters, and I knew he included Victoria Trevelyan among what was never the same. ‘I keep to myself, don’t go in the house. I just get on with what I can, tending the stock, keeping the farm in good heart which is a losing battle. Having my spot in the barn was luxury after the show over there. I didn’t want for much else.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Another ending.’ He touched the biscuit barrel with his toe. ‘I don’t suppose you need this. I have another use for it.’ He took the letters from the glass jar and handed them to me.

  We sat quietly while he ate. At last, between mouthfuls, he said, ‘Did the lad find his way here?’

  ‘He did. It was you who sent him?’

  ‘I brought him. He was scared. Two nights is long enough for any kid to camp out without a blanket.’

  ‘He’s upstairs, sleeping. His sister was greatly relieved to see him again.’

  He smiled for the first time. ‘There’ll be a place for him at Murgatroyd’s if he’s inclined. Mr Trevelyan went to see Mrs Murgatroyd. They called me in and asked would I be foreman on Catrigg Farm. Take the livestock in hand.’

  ‘And you agreed?’

  ‘I did. I’m to have a cottage that’s been standing empty since the shepherd’s wife died and he went to live with his sister.’

  He said this in the most neutral of tones. Mr Trevelyan must be a man of great discrimination if he could separate the fact of his wife having had an affair and a child with this man and yet be confident enough to offer him a step up. Perhaps there was method in what seemed like Trevelyan’s madness.

  ‘I’m glad you’ll have a roof over your head.’

  ‘Aye, and when I look about this room and see the fire in the grate, see how cosy a place can be, I look forward to moving in. Nipper’s getting too old to bide in a barn.’

  ‘Where is Nipper?’

  ‘I left him sleeping. It’s too far for him, this walk in the dark. I’d end up carrying him.’

  ‘You said there was something you wanted to ask me.’

  He drained his glass. ‘Being as you took on the job of go-between, when you give back the letters, please say I won’t trouble Victoria again. It’s all over and done.’

  This surprised me. Surely ‘it’ was long over and done. ‘Yes, I’ll say that.’

  ‘She may have heard that I’m courting a widow from Stainforth. And tell her there’s no need to fear Selina Gouthwaite. I took the precaution of helping myself to summat of theirs and have hidden it where no one will look. But she’ll know it’s gone and might make some threat to me or Victoria.’ He took a sealed brown envelope from his pocket. ‘If something happens to me, open this.’

  I wanted to refuse, because after all I was only here for another week or two and something untoward might happen after I left. I should have explained this, but that would look like a refusal.

  He saw my hesitation.

  ‘If something happens, it will be soon. This can’t go on. It will come to a head.’

  ‘You are mysterious, Mr Cherry.’

  He smiled. ‘A man of mystery, that’s me. It’s just this, just in case there is some threat to Victoria, or revenge against me, or my dog.’

  I took the envelope and put it and the letters in my satchel. ‘I’ll find a safe place for this.’

  He looked at the picture above the fireplace, a country scene done in watercolours. ‘I remember that picture from when Miss Simonson fed me and another boy during the storm. She was kind. After school one day when it was snowing, teachers asked people in the village who could give children from the tops a bed for the night. She took two of us in, and always did if the weather turned bad.’

  ‘She was a good woman, from all I’ve heard.’

  ‘A kind lady, now that I see her from the distance of time. As a lad, I thought her fierce. She made us mind our Ps and Qs and stood no nonsense.’

  He moved as if to go, yet seemed reluctant to leave the fireside. I gave him another tot of brandy. It would be cold outside now.

  ‘I don’t suppose you were here in 1916 when she witnessed a murder outside the White Hart?’

  ‘No. I’d just gone back to the front after a spell in hospital. But I heard about it later.’

  ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘The landlord at the Craven Heifer told me. He had a lot of time for Rufus Holroyd.’

  ‘Did he say whether he thought the Irishman was guilty or innocent?’

  ‘He thought he was guilty. It upset him. He said a drinker stabbing a publican goes against the laws of nature.’

  ‘Miss Simonson was a witness for the defence.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. Apart from the landlord filling me in on events, people had stopped talking about it. It was never mentioned on the farm.’

  The farm. This brought me back to my other question.

  ‘Mr Cherry, Martin told me something and it puzzles me. On Saturday, after the poor boy thought he’d killed Mr Gouthwaite, he hovered about the farm, to see if he really had killed him, or whether the man would come out, or a policeman appear.’

  ‘When I’m foreman, I’ll be happy to take young Martin under my wing. He’s a good little worker.’

  ‘At present he’s reluctant to go anywhere near the farms.’

  ‘I don’t blame him. But the Gouthwaites will go. They have no choice.’

  ‘Martin said he saw Mr Murgatroyd go into the Gouthwaites’ farmhouse on Saturday evening.’

  ‘I know nothing about that.’

  ‘Does it seem likely, and that they would have had a drink together?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Gouthwaite brews his own firewater. He drinks plenty of it too, that’s half his trouble, but I can’t see Bill Murgatroyd socialising with him.’

  He stood. ‘Can I get a light for my lamp?’

  ‘Yes of course.’

  He brought in his oil lamp, lifted the glass, took a taper from the mantelpiece and lit it. ‘Only thing makes sense to me is that Mr Murgatroyd would have tried to part with Gouthwaite on good terms. That would be his way of doing things.’

  I walked him to the door. ‘Thank you for the rabbits.’

  I watched him go, the light of the lamp becoming smaller. Back in the house, I remembered what Mrs Murgatroyd had said. She had not wanted her husband to make peace with the Gouthwaites. If he had done so without her knowledge, he may have kept that to himself.

  I made sure that I locked and bolted the doors front and back before going to bed.

  When I looked in first on Harriet and then on Martin, both were sleeping soundly.

  Sleep did not come for me for the longest time. I had expected to hear from Lucian, and was surprised by my own disappointment. True, I had seen him
only yesterday but so much had happened since then that it felt as though days had passed.

  Perhaps it was the tumultuous events of the day, or the responsibility not just for Harriet but for Martin that jolted me into wakefulness in the early hours, thoughts swirling round my brain and my head aching. Why had Lucian not come? What were the results of the post mortem on Mr Murgatroyd? Perhaps my note had not reached Lucian in Settle. He may well have gone back to Embsay where he also had patients.

  I decided to go downstairs, make a cup of cocoa and cut a slice of bread. Aunt Freda must have never suffered headaches because I could not remember seeing a bottle of aspirins.

  Drawing my dressing gown tightly, I placed a pan of milk and water on a ring of the little-used gas cooker.

  Having made my cup of cocoa, I thought a breath of fresh air would help. I unlocked the back door and went into the garden, breathing in the scent of stock.

  Looking up to see the stars, I saw that the sky over the hills was red and full of sparks and smoke. Something was on fire.

  My mouth felt suddenly dry and a pain gripped my chest. Where was the fire? I couldn’t tell. I ran to the back gate and stepped out onto the lane, as if that might allow me to get my bearings. It didn’t. Every house I could see was in darkness.

  What did people do here when there was a fire in the middle of the night, in a village that prided itself on shunning the telephone? What should I do? I wished Lucian were here. No telephone. No fire brigade to call. There was a police house, but where?

  I stumbled back into the house, through the kitchen, along the hall, clumsily struggling to draw back the bolt on the front door. The post office — they would know who to contact. It was so dark. A cloud hid the moon. I didn’t feel confident that I could find my way to the post office in darkness.

  I grabbed a coat from the hall stand, slid on a pair of galoshes and went outside. As I hurried along the path to the gate, I heard sounds, voices, saw the flash of a lantern.

  People who knew the area would look at the sky and locate the fire.

  Two men stood near the odd three-storey house, the workhouse. One of them saw me. ‘It’s all right, missis, alarm’s been raised.’

  I heard a motorbike start and, as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, saw a man climb into the sidecar. A lot of good that would do! What did he have with him, half a gallon of water? They sped off into the night.