A Death in the Dales

by Frances Brody

  Mrs Sugden thought of the lame doctor and Mrs Holroyd’s high regard for him. She also knew that Mrs Holroyd relished the company of her young lodgers. The woman looked up to those who were her social superiors and knew how to treat those below her. She would be unlikely to welcome a lame duck but may be prepared to play Lady Bountiful and instructress to a woman in temporary distress, as long as it cost her nothing.

  Yards from the house, Mrs Sugden’s knee gave way in a most convincing manner. Agony infused her very being and contorted her handsome features. She struggled on until she reached the house with the thick cream net curtains before giving a cry of pain and supporting herself against Mrs Holroyd’s wall, outstretching her painful leg.

  She gave a loud groan, hoping the sound would not bring out an interfering neighbour. It took two minutes and another groan before the door opened.

  Mrs Holroyd might have objected to the stranger’s presence had Mrs Sugden not let out a stifled cry.

  ‘Hello,’ said the object of Mrs Sugden’s curiosity in a sharp voice. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Mrs Sugden, respectably dressed in light tweed with a brown brimmed hat and calfskin gloves, looked up at the tall, gaunt figure neatly attired in black skirt, grey cardigan and blue pinafore, her grey hair fiercely tamed under the dark net.

  In a brave but pained voice, Mrs Sugden apologised profusely for intruding and trespass. ‘My knee catches me out. If I can just hold my leg straight for a moment until it clicks…’

  They both looked at Mrs Sugden’s outstretched lislestockinged leg, or what little was exposed of it beneath the skirt that ended a respectable three inches above her ankle. Having ascertained this intruder was not a vagrant, Mrs Holroyd asked, ‘Would you care for a glass of water?’

  Mrs Sugden did not care for a glass of water. She cared to step inside and give this woman the third degree. ‘Yes. A glass of water, thank you. Thank you so much. How kind. You are a good Christian woman.’

  Mrs Holroyd went inside and very quickly came back with a glass of water.

  As she did so, large drops of rain obligingly fell.

  Mrs Sugden looked up helplessly at the clouds. ‘The heavens have opened. This is the last straw.’ Her voice threatened to give way. ‘And here I am, such a nuisance, and not in the village five minutes before I must beg your indulgence. May I remain leaning on your wall a while longer?’

  ‘You had better step inside, if you are able.’ The merest hint of curiosity coloured the invitation.

  Leaning on Mrs Holroyd’s proffered arm, Mrs Sugden hobbled into the cottage, turning right into the neat kitchen where a small but cheerful fire burned in the gleaming range. Next to the highly polished brass fender was a rag rug in tasteful greys and reds. A pair of China dogs of indeterminate breed graced the mantelshelf where an ornamental clock with a green face held pride of place.

  ‘Sit there,’ Mrs Holroyd ordered, indicating a sturdy bentwood chair. Bringing a high stool and cushions, she helped Mrs Sugden raise her painful leg, saying, ‘My poor dear mother had the same ailment. It can be a twisted cartilage or wear and tear.’

  Mrs Sugden felt the slightest pang of guilt but suppressed it with her usual efficiency. She was here to do a job. She looked around the room and could genuinely admire how well it was kept, the square table covered in a speckless oil cloth and condiments on a small tin tray decorated with daisies. In the corner, against the wall, was a curtained-off area — Mrs Holroyd’s bed.

  When Mrs Sugden complimented the woman on her fine and comfortable house, Mrs Holroyd tilted her head. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Too soon, Mrs Sugden told herself. She thinks I am a flatterer. Tread carefully.

  ‘I am sorry if I appear forward. It is not my habit to trespass on the kindness of strangers, but this house reminds me so much of the one I had myself before I was widowed and had to go into service.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Yes. I should say who I am. My name is Olive Sugden. I am a housekeeper, which I suppose is why I admire a person who has her independence, as you so clearly do.’

  ‘You have just arrived in the village, you say?’

  ‘I have, and was familiarising myself with the area, looking for the shops and so on. My mistress has been here a few days and I had expected her holiday to be my all too brief respite from service, but I was sent for.’ She sighed heavily, trying to indicate without words her animosity towards the mistress who could not do a hand’s turn without her. She glanced up at the china dogs. ‘But you are your own woman and I am guessing you are at no one’s beck and call.’

  Her companion softened very slightly. ‘I am also a widow. Mrs Holroyd.’

  ‘Mrs Holroyd! Then you are the very person I was recommended to apply to, to be initiated into the mysteries of buying provisions in the Parish of Langcliffe.’

  ‘Oh? Who recommended me?’

  Mrs Sugden felt certain that if a situation called for a lie, that lie should be quick and extravagant. ‘Mr Trevelyan recognised me as a stranger. He was kind enough to mention you as the most worthy and knowledgeable female in the village — I particularly remember his words, thinking them a little quaint and old-fashioned. I believe you were born and bred here.’

  This was a lucky guess. Mrs Sugden had said the right thing. Having finished her ironing and set the pot on the hob for the evening meal, Mrs Holroyd settled herself to favour this stranger with a little history regarding her parentage, birth, chapel upbringing and artistic triumphs as a scholar at the village school as illustrated by the exercise book she produced from Standard III Nature Study class, coming up to date with the care she took of the young charges who were guests in this humble abode.

  This was not what Mrs Sugden had in mind. She was here for information, and to prise that information quickly before she must admit to being in the employ of Mrs Shackleton.

  ‘Your young charges are very fortunate, Mrs Holroyd, that you give them a roof over their heads and the benefit of your knowledge. Even I am turning a little philosophical under your influence. You see, it strikes me that some of us are born to widowhood — under an unlucky star. Others have widowhood thrust upon them by destiny so that they will have the time and opportunity to do some good in the world. You were a budding artist as a girl and a Samaritan now. I am not surprised yours was the name that sprang to Mr Trevelyan’s lips.’

  ‘Ah, thank you.’

  Mrs Sugden felt the satisfaction of one who has picked up a great bunch of keys and found the right one from the jangle. A little flattery might raise suspicion. A great dollop would open her subject’s heart, mind and mouth.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Trevelyan know me well, and the unfortunate circumstances surrounding my widowhood.’

  ‘The war?’ Mrs Sugden suggested. She sighed. ‘You may tell me, Mrs Holroyd. I never speak to a soul. My work keeps me busy, morning till night.’

  ‘Not the war. That brought him home wounded in 1915.’ Mrs Holroyd tilted her head to one side and gave Mrs Sugden an appraising look. ‘You are a housekeeper, only just arrived in the village, with a mistress who keeps you busy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mrs Sugden saw where Mrs Holroyd was leading. ‘You work for the woman who is staying at the doctor’s house?’

  ‘I do.’ Mrs Sugden sighed out a breath of tragedy. The resigned tone of her voice conveyed more than any tirade against her employer could. ‘And we never speak, above my taking her orders.’

  ‘I thought she must be a petty tyrant, coming into the Village Institute, trying to quiz me about things that are not her business.’

  ‘Oh, she is like that. But believe me, she hears not a word from me. Our arrangement is entirely business. I will not say how she treats me, but you do not know what a pleasure it is for me to be in the company of a lady with conversation. We widows have our sorrows, at least most of us do. I hope you and I can speak freely, Mrs Holroyd.’

  ‘I am sure we can. Is she the devil to work for?’

  ‘Beelzebub’
s dam could not be worse.’

  ‘I thought as much. Sweet on the surface, but doesn’t know how to conduct herself.’

  ‘You have it in a nutshell.’

  Mrs Holroyd pursed her lips and gave a sympathetic shake of the head. ‘Then you must feel free to call on me while you are staying, and unburden yourself.’

  ‘That is most kind. If she gives me a moment, I will call on you. Perhaps you might give me some tasks at the church or in the Village Institute, so that she will not suspect you have taken me under your wing.’

  ‘I should think that could be arranged, your knee permitting.’

  Mrs Sugden gave her leg a rub. ‘Your fire helps. A little warmth, you know.’

  ‘I expect you live in poor conditions while your mistress plays the lady.’

  ‘I do not complain.’

  ‘And she has her hooks into the doctor.’

  ‘Perhaps he does not know her as well as I do. But you were telling me, you were a Methodist and I believe you are now Church of England.’ Fearing to seem too knowledgeable, Mrs Sugden added quickly, ‘According to Mr Trevelyan.’

  ‘Yes. As a young woman I was courted by a fellow Methodist. We were to have married but he was called to the missions. I could not see it as my vocation to travel to South Africa with him as a missionary’s wife.’

  ‘That was highly principled of you. Some women would have gone for the sake of being wed.’

  ‘Indeed. It was a long courtship, and my refusal meant that I was unmarried at the age of nine and twenty and resigned to spinsterhood. That was when I joined the Church of England.’

  ‘And there you met Mr Holroyd.’

  She smiled at the memory. ‘Not exactly. He was a newcomer to this area from a hamlet called Eggleswick.’

  ‘Eggleswick.’ That sounded to Mrs Sugden like a made-up name.

  ‘Yes Eggleswick, a village in remote Lawkerdale, which is even more remote than Dentdale and little known except to those who live there.’

  ‘Just fancy! We never know what lies around the corner.’

  Mrs Holroyd smiled at a happy memory. ‘He did come from around a corner. I was in Settle, shopping, and had just come out of the bank. He bumped into me.’ She laughed. ‘All my packages went flying. He picked them up, insisted on helping me to carry them while I managed my bag. He walked me back to Langcliffe, and that was that as you might say.’

  ‘How romantic.’

  ‘Not at first. We became friends. He was a most gregarious man. He could not have been more different to Cedric, my former fiancé.’

  ‘And you married. I am guessing he did not waste time in asking.’

  Mrs Sugden wondered whether Mr Holroyd from the remote dale believed he had bumped into a woman of substance when he saw her coming out of the bank.

  ‘It was what you might call a whirlwind. He took over as licensee of the alehouse and carried me across that threshold before I had time to say nay, much less explain to him that the smell of ale made me want to vomit. I now advise my young guests that if they marry a man from a distant dale they will not know him to the bone as they might the lad who sat behind them in the classroom undoing the ribbons on their pigtails.’

  ‘Oh but what a picture, being carried over the threshold.’

  ‘Sideways. I’m rather tall you see and my feet caught the doorframe.’

  ‘Still, carried is carried.’

  ‘Yes. You were not? Carried I mean.’

  ‘No. Sadly. Different circumstances.’

  There were several more moments of chat, enquiry about Mrs Sugden’s knee and a reviving glass of port wine before Mrs Holroyd confided the manner of her husband’s tragic death.

  ‘He was murdered, Mrs Sugden, after he ejected a Fenian who carried a knife.’

  ‘How shocking. What a shadow that must cast over you.’

  ‘I pray, and I make myself useful.’

  ‘Did you attend the man’s trial? Was there any indication of why he killed your husband?’

  ‘He was a violent drunkard who took umbrage at being thrown out when he became objectionable. I attended as many days as I was able. Being the object of pity was trial in itself. His death was on the weekend of the special supper to welcome the new clergyman. We would both have attended.’

  ‘How unfortunate.’

  ‘Yes. We had a pig specially slaughtered for the occasion and donated the better part of it. Strange how everything becomes confused at a time like that, feelings of regret, and guilt.’

  Was it her imagination, Mrs Sugden asked herself, or did Mrs Holroyd have greater regrets about missing the new clergyman’s welcome supper than losing her husband?

  ‘You had nothing to feel guilty about, Mrs Holroyd.’

  ‘No, but that does not stop the feeling.’

  Mrs Sugden’s spirits rose at the possibility of an imminent confession. Mrs Holroyd had engaged the Irishman as an assassin because she hated the smell of ale but could not bear the scandal of leaving her husband. Or, she had engaged a man to kill a pig in order to impress the new clergyman. Perhaps the slaughterer had dropped some hint, or she saw evil and greed in his eyes to match her own. The possibility occurred to her that this man might do the dark deed, for a price. With her husband dead, she would be able to leave the hated alehouse, and collect the insurance money.

  Give yourself away, you nasty woman. Say something to trip yourself up.

  ‘What can possibly haunt you, Mrs Holroyd? In spite of any little drawbacks and the ultimate tragedy, your union sounds most romantic, and you stayed on in your own village. Mr Holroyd must have cared for you very deeply.’

  Mrs Holroyd crossed her arms over her chest as if to warm her heart. ‘Oh he did, but we had argued. He wanted me to put money into the business, strike out with bigger premises, perhaps in Settle or Skipton.’

  ‘That was not what you wanted.’

  ‘I am teetotal, Mrs Sugden, and had made sacrifice enough simply living in the White Hart, and being occasionally prevailed upon to keep order and ensure men drank in moderation.’

  ‘You must have been fortunate to have money that could have gone into such a business, and prudent to ensure that it did not.’

  He didn’t know you had a house to sell, Mrs Sugden guessed, not giving voice to her thoughts. He understood it to be rented, and you flogged it without telling him.

  Mrs Sugden risked a conspiratorial smile. ‘A Yorkshire lass knows how to keep hold of her purse.’

  Mrs Holroyd returned the smile.

  ‘Family funds left me comfortably off. I had been advised by the bank to insure my husband’s life, and the bank manager suggested railway shares.’

  Mrs Sugden’s admiration was genuine. Here was a woman whose head could not have been more tightly screwed on. Mrs Holroyd had pocketed the money from a house sale, lived in the rented White Hart, and turned herself into a tycoon. ‘Most prudent and sensible.’ Mrs Sugden allowed herself the briefest of fantasies about what she would do if three hundred pounds fell into her lap. ‘Did Mr Holroyd guess how much you were worth?’

  ‘I believe he did. When he knew how dead set I was against staying in the licensed trade, he began to look in the Craven Herald for other business opportunities and would leave the pages on the kitchen table, with certain advertisements heavily ringed.’

  ‘He valued you, and your judgement.’

  ‘You are right. And Rufus did not harbour resentments. Nor did he gossip. He drank very little himself. He encouraged others to tell him their troubles, and while he would seem to have something to say, he in fact said nothing. He knew a lot, as publicans do.’

  ‘You must have known a lot too.’

  ‘No! The customers kept quiet while I was within earshot. Because they knew I would not put up with any nonsense.’ A shadow of annoyance crossed her face. ‘Rufus knew things. He knew secrets. He had lost the sight of one eye during the war, but my goodness he missed nothing.’

  ‘What did he know?’

  Sh
e shook her head. ‘He would never confide in me.’

  ‘Then he did not believe that there should be no secrets between husband and wife.’

  ‘He said some secrets were not his to tell.’

  Blackmail, Mrs Sugden thought. The man knew things about his customers and extorted money to fund his move to the bustle of Settle or the bright lights of Skipton. That was why he died.

  ‘Did you guess any of these secrets — not that I would expect you to reveal them.’

  ‘No. I did not. He made it a point of honour not to talk about what he knew. If ever a man was capable of taking a secret to the grave, Rufus was that man.’ She stood and opened a drawer, took out another exercise book. Mrs Sugden hoped there would not be more nature drawings to admire. ‘He was a great one for aphorisms and would write them in a notebook.’ She read aloud with great solemnity. ‘“You can tell more from what a man keeps to himself than what he says aloud.”’

  Mrs Sugden nodded sagely, as required.

  ‘And this one, “Discretion is the better part of innkeeping.” There is a whole page, but I will give you just one more. “Mischiefs feed like beasts till they be fat and then they bleed.” Is that not deep?’

  ‘That is very deep.’ Mrs Sugden wished she could make a note. She hoped she would remember these sayings that gave some indication of the character of Mr Holroyd and his way of conducting himself. Mrs Shackleton would be interested in that, the character of the victim.

  They were at a point in the conversation when something more was expected of Mrs Sugden, and she knew it. The balance of conversation had tipped in that mysterious way. Mrs Holroyd was waiting, and she prompted.

  ‘How are you liking Lilac Cottage?’ Mrs Holroyd’s voice remained deliberately neutral but with an underlying animosity as if the stones of that cottage had done her a bad turn.

  ‘It has a chilly atmosphere,’ Mrs Sugden said, aiming for hints of melancholy, or worse.

  ‘Does your mistress, Mrs Shackleton, say anything about the events in Langcliffe ten years ago, about my husband’s death?’

  ‘Not to me. But I sense that she is intrigued by something. She calls herself an enquiry agent.’ The words tasted sordid on Mrs Sugden’s tongue. ‘She feels entitled to meddle in all sorts of affairs but her meddlings are a closed book to me.’