A Death in the Dales

by Frances Brody

  ‘I mean why are you looking into it?’

  ‘Your aunt wanted me to.’

  ‘This is Wiggy’s doing, don’t tell me it’s not.’

  ‘Partly. He brought me her papers. She mentioned me, Lucian. She hoped I would do something about it.’

  ‘You can’t, not after all this time. Wiggy had no business interfering.’

  ‘She had it in mind that I would find the truth.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘You see if she was right and Flaherty was innocent, the one way to prove that would be to find who really did kill Mr Holroyd.’

  ‘I respect that Aunt Freda was convinced of Flaherty’s innocence, but the police don’t want to hang the wrong man. No one does. She didn’t want me to do anything about it because…’

  ‘Because you’re a doctor, and your business is medicine. You had told her about me.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t.’

  ‘But you did, and so what I’m saying does make sense.’

  ‘Because of who you are, you would see it that way. There is no other way for you to see it, except to want to find out the truth.’ He put his arm around me. ‘That’s part of your appeal, Kate. I wouldn’t want to stop you doing what you do best, only I suppose it doesn’t entirely fit with what I do.’

  ‘It’s possible it might fit very well in a place like Langcliffe.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I’ve only been here a few days and we’re to attend an inquest tomorrow that could result in a murder trial.’

  At that moment, Harriet and Martin looked in our direction. She waved.

  ‘I want to protect them, Lucian. Harriet has had her fill of the dark side of life, and so has he. She wants to be my assistant, and she’s a very good little helper, but I need Sykes. I hope he’ll be able to do a little digging.’

  ‘What kind of protection do you mean? If you don’t feel safe here, we can go to Embsay, all of us.’

  ‘I’ve asked Mr Sykes to stay. I want him to help reinvestigate the murder of Mr Holroyd. I’ve done what I can.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I’m not going into details, not yet.’

  ‘You are here for just two weeks and you are not able to leave off your sleuthing.’

  ‘You were the one who started me off, and don’t deny it.’

  ‘Me? How?’

  ‘Because you invited me here. You asked me to come to the place where your aunt witnessed a murder, and it turns out to have been her intention that I investigate.’

  There was a slight frostiness when Lucian dropped us off at the door of Lilac Cottage.

  Harriet and Martin went inside. Lucian sat glued to his driver’s seat.

  ‘Will you come in?’ I asked.

  ‘No. I’d better get back. Patients are no respecter of a doctor’s day off and I don’t want McKinley to overdo it. He hasn’t been well lately. In any case, I’ll leave you to your visitor. I suppose assistant detective Sykes will be arriving shortly.’

  ‘I was hoping you might be here, and suggest somewhere he could stay.’

  ‘He’s not staying here then?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  I knew Sykes irritated Lucian, but I had not suspected he could be jealous or think there might be something between us. That was ridiculous.

  Lucian looked relieved. ‘He could do worse than the Craven Heifer in Stainforth. It’s not a hotel but they have one or two rooms that they let out occasionally.’

  ‘Right, I’ll tell him.’

  ‘I’ll see you and Martin at the inquest tomorrow. Shall I pick you up?’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘I expect Sykes will drive you.’

  ‘And I expect we’ll walk. It’s no distance and Mr Sykes is bound to be low on petrol.’

  ‘Right then, till tomorrow!’

  Feeling utterly miserable, I watched him drive away. We both had such high hopes of this time we would spend together, and with Harriet, trying out what it might feel like to be a family. Was it me? Was it him? Harriet was the only one emerging with credit, being helpful, tactful, with her endearing wish to be a detective.

  It must be me. He was a nice, sweet, reasonable man. Look at the way he reassured Martin and made the lad feel good about himself.

  Fate conspired to make life difficult. All I could hope for just now was a better day tomorrow, the day of the inquest.

  I looked up at the speeding clouds. I could blame the planets. Perhaps the fault was not in ourselves but in our stars.

  Twenty-One

  Lucian waved as he drove away. As soon as I opened the front door, I smelled baking. I walked through the hall into the kitchen.

  There was Mrs Sugden, sitting in the Windsor chair, knitting and holding court as Harriet told her where we had been, and introduced Martin.

  ‘Mrs Sugden, what are you doing here?’

  ‘That’s a fine greeting.’ She looked up from her knitting. ‘I wonder how long you would have let them rabbits hang. They belong in a pie, not behind the pantry door.’

  ‘I expected Mr Sykes.’

  ‘He’s here. What a journey we had. I’d no idea how far flung you were.’

  ‘Well I’m pleased to see you. It’s a surprise, that’s all. Where is Mr Sykes?’

  ‘Doing what he calls his reconnoitre round the village. Oh and he’s taken your trunk upstairs.’

  ‘And where’s his motor?’

  ‘Mr Mysterious chooses to leave it round the back. As if in a village the size of a postage stamp folk won’t notice an additional car no matter where he puts it. They’ll all take a gander, discuss where he scratched the black paint and it shows through blue.’

  ‘Who’s Mr Sykes?’ Martin asked.

  ‘He works with my auntie,’ Harriet said. ‘Come on, Martin, let’s go out and see if we can find him.’

  When the door closed behind them, Mrs Sugden paused in her knitting. ‘I see it didn’t take you long to pick up a waif.’

  ‘Things haven’t worked out as I thought they might.’

  ‘Well I’m here now, and I’ll stay a couple of days. That cat doesn’t take up all my time and young Thomas Tetley comes in to feed her and let her in and out. She’ll survive. I’m not sure you will.’

  ‘This was to be a holiday for you as well as me.’

  ‘How is it a holiday for you when you’re shopping and cooking? For me staying here will be a change of scene.’ She clicked her needles, a new row. ‘Unless you have someone else looking after you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. I’ll have that bed in the alcove. I always thought it a good idea to have a bed in a kitchen corner and make use of the warmth.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re staying. One or two things have cropped up.’

  Without a pause from her knitting, Mrs Sugden looked up. ‘Mr Sykes hinted as much from what you said. He didn’t want me to come, you know, but I had this sixth sense that you might appreciate my help.’

  It suddenly occurred to me that she was absolutely right. If anyone could make sure Harriet was properly fed, it was Mrs Sugden. What’s more, if anyone could cajole Mrs Holroyd into talking, it would be Mrs Sugden. The women had a lot in common, both being practical, down to earth and knowing the value of sixpence. Mrs Holroyd had taken against me, probably thinking me a cut above.

  We chatted about how things were at home, and what needed doing here. I told her about Mr Wigglesworth and his request.

  ‘You see, Lucian’s Aunt Freda left me something of a tragic puzzle.’ I told her about the murder, the trial, and Aunt Freda’s conviction that the wrong man was hanged. ‘And if anyone knows whether Rufus Holroyd, the murdered innkeeper, had enemies, it would be his widow. She won’t talk to me. I rubbed her up the wrong way.’

  ‘That’s a turn up for the books.’ Mrs Sugden reached the end of a sleeve, examined her work and then folded it around the needles. ‘What’s she like, this Mrs Holroyd?’

  I described her
, adding that she took in lodgers and had the house on New Street opposite the washing green. ‘But don’t call them lodgers. According to Lucian, she likes to call them paying guests.’

  ‘From what you say, it sounds as if she has made a nice little niche for herself. Perhaps I could ask her advice about who are the reliable tradesmen.’

  ‘If she knows you are my housekeeper, she may be reluctant to have anything to do with you.’

  Mrs Sugden gave a mysterious smile. ‘Not if I explain how difficult my life is working with you, and how I envy a woman like her who has her independence.’

  ‘Mrs Sugden, you are a genius.’

  She nodded agreement.

  ‘If she’s taken against you, she’ll be willing to believe me, and be very anxious to hear my complaints.’

  ‘Then do it. Say whatever you like. Tell her I throw plates and deduct the cost from your wages, anything at all to make her talk.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘If Aunt Freda was right and the wrong man was found guilty, I want to know if there are any other men in this village who would have wished her husband harm.’

  Mrs Sugden let out a sharp breath. ‘And here’s me thinking the worst thing about this village was that the butcher sells so many pies. I expected women in Langcliffe to be quite capable of doing their own baking.’

  ‘Some of them work in the mill. So I suppose they like to have something convenient.’

  ‘I’d better know a bit more about this murder.’

  I told Mrs Sugden about Aunt Freda’s evidence for the defence. I also, by the by, told her about calling at Murgatroyds’ farm on Sunday, and the suspicious death of Mr Murgatroyd.

  ‘What kind of place have you fetched up in? I said you should have gone to Whitby. No wonder that doctor wants to marry you. He won’t feel at peace until the Langcliffe murderers have been caught and seen to. Which one are we looking into?’

  ‘It has to be the death in 1916.’

  ‘Why, if there’s some poisoner abroad now?’

  ‘Because I don’t know enough about that yet. There’ll be an inquest tomorrow and I’m hoping that the coroner will find the truth.’

  ‘And what progress have you made on this wartime murder?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the priest who confirmed what I thought, that Flaherty was innocent.’

  ‘Well he would say that wouldn’t he? Left footers are bound to stick together.’

  ‘Perhaps. But if you had been there, I think you would have believed him too. Aunt Freda’s good friend, Bradley Wigglesworth, brought me Aunt Freda’s papers and wants to talk to me.’

  ‘What are we hoping to do? We can’t bring the hanged man back.’

  ‘I know. But it was Aunt Freda’s dying wish that we try to clear his name.’

  I described my meeting with Mrs Holroyd at the village institute on May Day and how she had resented Aunt Freda’s involvement in the trial, believing that it prolonged her own agony.

  Mrs Sugden listened carefully. ‘I think I have the woman’s measure. I’ll see what I can find out.’

  ‘Oh and you might want to say that Mrs Trevelyan or the vicar recommended you to talk to her, or she may smell a rat.’

  ‘Hey up!’ It was Sykes. ‘Do I catch a whiff of rabbit pie?’

  I smiled at them both. Their arrival gave me an inkling of what it must have been like at the relief of Mafeking. I was no longer investigating alone.

  Mrs Sugden took off her pinafore. She pointed to the clock. ‘Can somebody keep an eye on that pie, and take it out in ten minutes without severely burning their hands?’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Sykes asked.

  ‘To call on a neighbour. Is Harriet about?’

  Sykes nodded towards the front of the house. ‘She and Martin are sitting on the garden wall.’

  ‘Then she can show me the way.’

  When Mrs Sugden had gone, I talked to Sykes about where he might stay. He liked the sound of the Craven Heifer and would cycle there. ‘It’s a devil of a do about the petrol supply just now, what with the strike and not knowing how long it will last. I’ve brought enough for the return journey to Leeds and I’ve stashed it in the cellar here for safe keeping.’ He took an envelope from his pocket. It was my note to him about the trial of Joseph Flaherty at Leeds Assizes in 1916.

  ‘Do you want to see what I found?’

  ‘Yes I do. And if we go in the parlour, I’ll show you Aunt Freda’s box of cuttings and her papers.’

  He followed me into the front room.

  Sykes reads very quickly, particularly any notes to do with crime. He seems to absorb the words through his fingertips as he handles a page. ‘She was a thorough woman, your doctor’s Aunt Freda. Have you read all this?’

  ‘Yes of course.’

  ‘Then there’s not a great deal I can add. The prosecutor made much of Flaherty being a hot-headed Irishman and the judge very fairly plays that down in his summing up, but it’s there all the same, and quite rightly.’

  ‘Why do you say quite rightly?’

  ‘Mrs Shackleton, the man was guilty. He had the knife in his hand.’

  ‘I don’t think he was guilty. I believe Freda.’

  He groaned. ‘Well I might have expected that.’

  ‘Mr Sykes, humour me. We were bound to take different points of view. But let us proceed on the presumption of innocence.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that.’

  ‘I know. But that is what I want to do. You said there is not a great deal you can add. What can you add?’

  ‘Photographs, and it was a bit of a devil to get them.’ He handed me a manila envelope. ‘Are you sure you want to see them all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The photographs showed the body of Rufus Holroyd; the blood-stained clothing of Joseph James Flaherty; the murder weapon, a knife as described by the judge, taken next to a ruler to show its length of nine inches. The handle was carved with a distinctive swirling pattern. There was the prisoner, too, a young man with dark hair, no expression in his eyes, a bruise to his cheek.

  Sykes waited until I had examined the photographs. ‘There’s nothing to go on.’

  ‘The village must be full of people who remember and are willing to talk.’

  Sykes sniffed the air, and so did I. ‘The pie!’

  We both leaped to our feet.

  Sykes reached the kitchen before me and opened the oven door. Mrs Sugden had ignored the gas cooker and used the oven on the range.

  ‘Ow!’ Sykes burned his fingers.

  ‘Use the oven cloth, not a tea towel.’

  He removed the pie and placed it on the table. ‘Just in time. And she’s done two.’ He removed a second pie.

  While Sykes ran his fingers under the tap to cool the burn, I told him who I would like him to speak to regarding the murder of Rufus Holroyd.

  ‘And do we know if this friend of Flaherty still works at the lime kilns?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it’s worth a try.’

  Mrs Sugden had decorated the top of the pie by placing extra pieces of pastry, making a pattern that resembled a wheel.

  I stared at it. ‘I’ve seen that pattern before.’

  Sykes was still holding his finger under the cold water. ‘Well you would. It’s the thing to do isn’t, put a little decoration on the top of a pie.’

  ‘Not that pattern, the one on the knife handle, the murder weapon.’

  He turned off the tap. ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘Go see if Martin Young’s knife is on the bench outside. He was out there earlier, whittling wood. Look at the squiggle and we’ll compare it with the photograph you brought me of the knife that killed Mr Holroyd.’

  I went back into the parlour and took out the photograph.

  In a few moments, Sykes joined me, carrying Martin’s penknife. ‘It’s the same all right.’

  ‘I didn’t think anything of it when Harriet said that Martin’s father had been in Langcliffe and
it was an unlucky place for him. He lost his set of knives here.’ I put the photo down. ‘What if he didn’t lose them? What if he threw them away because he had used one to kill a man?’

  Sykes stroked his chin. He did need a shave but that was not the purpose. He does that as a way of helping him think. ‘Have you checked in with the village bobby?’

  ‘No. I didn’t see the need, since I’m on holiday. I reported Martin missing at Settle police station because I happened to be there, telling Lucian about Mr Murgatroyd’s death.’

  ‘Mr Murgatroyd?’

  ‘A farmer who was poisoned. The inquest is tomorrow.’

  ‘I see. Well, you and I find ourselves in the right place at the right time, Mrs Shackleton.’

  ‘We do indeed, Mr Sykes.’

  ‘Right. I’ll take myself off to the Craven Heifer and catch a bite to eat there. If it’s not too late, I’ll be back to let you know how I get on. And I have another idea up my sleeve.’ He was looking pleased with himself and I knew better than to ask what this ‘other idea’ might be.

  With the support of Sykes and Mrs Sugden, my chances of solving Aunt Freda’s mystery had tripled. I wondered how Mrs Sugden was getting on with Widow Holroyd.

  Twenty-Two

  Mrs Sugden’s confidence waned the moment she shut the gate of Lilac Cottage behind her. It was one thing to imagine conducting an interview under false pretences and quite another to face the flesh, blood and bile of the individual she needed to quiz. The difficulty lay in discovering how to squeeze the juice of old truths from Mrs Holroyd, widow of the murdered Rufus Holroyd, without arousing suspicion.

  Harriet pointed out the house. Mrs Sugden thanked her but did not straight away knock on the door. She walked about the village with the concentration of a horse, blinkered against distraction, its nose deeply into the hay bag of possibilities. Mrs Sugden considered her approach, bearing in mind what she had learned from Mrs Shackleton and from Harriet’s chatter as she had shown her the way.

  What a pity today was Tuesday. Yesterday, she might have caught her prey in the act of bringing in washing from the line. That would have allowed her to broach some suitable topic in a casual manner. Knocking on the door would demand a bolder means of entry.