A Death in the Dales

by Frances Brody

  ‘I am glad to hear it. I put a stop to her interfering questions regarding my late husband.’

  ‘Never!’ Mrs Sugden looked truly shocked. ‘Even she would not stoop so low, surely?’

  ‘Oh yes. You see Lilac Cottage was the home of Miss Simonson, the doctor’s aunt. She insisted someone else other than the Irishman killed Rufus, even when the evidence was laid before her. One should not speak ill of the dead, but that woman brought blight to the village and I am not sorry she has gone. Now Dr Simonson, he is a different person altogether, a credit to the village and I hope he will stay.’

  ‘A doctor in a village is a great asset.’

  ‘And so should his wife be an asset. He is as different from his aunt as chalk to limestone. And speaking of aunts…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I am guessing that the Harriet girl is not a niece to Mrs Shackleton?’

  Mrs Sugden was genuinely puzzled, and it showed.

  ‘Come, Mrs Sugden, you must see the close resemblance, more than a niece I think, and is it not odd that the girl’s “mother” allows the aunt to take her away when she is at an age to be useful around the house? Unless there is a closer relationship, and if that were the case and the doctor knew, he would think very differently about the sweet-natured Mrs Shackleton.’

  Mrs Sugden failed to dissemble. Her mouth dropped open. The woman thought that Harriet was Mrs Shackleton’s love child.

  ‘That thought never occurred to me,’ she said somewhat lamely.

  ‘Why would it occur to a good Christian woman like yourself? We know not how the other half lives, Mrs Sugden. I hope Dr Simonson will not make the mistake of marrying her. If there was something that could put a stop to it, the village would be much obliged. Anything you can divulge will not be traced back to you. Be assured of that.’

  Mrs Sugden, aware that there might be something else she needed to know, agreed to bear these thoughts in mind. She flexed her leg. Her knee felt suddenly whole again. Her need to escape became paramount.

  Twenty-Three

  Jim Sykes’s second reconnoitre around the village took him to the Langcliffe Men’s Institute, a place where working men might improve themselves in languages, science and history. Its shelves also housed local directories. By examining these directories and the electoral roll, Sykes discovered that Matthew Walsh, Flaherty’s former workmate and friend, now lived in Stainforth.

  Jim Sykes cycled to Stainforth. Young Martin had done a good job on the old bicycle. The lad would make a fine blacksmith, or a mechanic. Sykes booked a room at the Craven Heifer and ordered supper.

  It is a rule universally acknowledged that a stranger who arrives at a public house dressed in a good suit will be expected to stand a regular a drink. The regular Sykes hoped to meet was Matthew Walsh. At Flaherty’s trial, he spoke for the defence. Walsh had lived in Langcliffe at that time. Now his house stood a stone’s throw from the Craven Heifer. It would be a strange occurrence indeed if Mr Walsh did not put in an appearance for at least one pint at his local, especially if he still worked in the kilns, straining his sinews and sharpening his thirst.

  Sykes took a guess that the man would frequent the tap room, and so stationed himself at the bar and fell into conversation with the landlord who came through to serve him. Naturally, they spoke on general matters as well as topics of the day. Sykes praised the brew. Did their beer come far? No, it was brewed locally. Were they much affected by the General Strike? Not very much so far. Coal, or the shortage of it, might soon become a worry. Folk were already out at night by the railway sidings with their shovels and buckets. They were up on the tops digging peat and charging top price. Would the men from the lime kiln be coming out in support or sympathy? That the landlord did not know. They might be laid off before they had time to make up their minds because without the railways there’d be nowhere for the lime to go.

  This gave Sykes an opening to enquire further about the lime kilns and the workers and to hear that some of them lived hereabouts. How would they pay their rent if this strike went on, the landlord asked, not expecting an answer. What about the tick they had run up at the local shops? He needed to decide soon what sort of slate he might keep for regulars.

  It was an hour before Sykes’s quarry, witness for the defence at Joseph James Flaherty’s trial, strolled through the door and up to the bar. His rosy face well washed, his hair combed of lime though a light dusting remained and he brought with him a bitter aroma of earth, charred coke and smoke. When he rested his arm on the counter to pick up the pint the landlord drew, he left a thin coating of dust on the solid wood. As he picked up his drink, he spilled the merest drop and turned the dust from his sleeve into something resembling sand washed by the tide.

  ‘Nah then, Matt.’ The landlord brought out a cloth and wiped the surface. ‘Counter’s had its wash for this week.’

  Yes, thought Sykes. Got you. Matt had been a loyal friend to the convicted man. Sykes wanted to know whether ten years on he still believed his friend innocent and if so whether there were thoughts or ideas he had pondered in the time between. Perhaps he let into his mind the fleeting thought that Flaherty had indeed been guilty, or he may have held to his firm conviction and racked his brains wondering about the real culprit. Sykes would need to tread carefully. The information he sought might open up old wounds.

  ‘What’s new?’ the landlord asked.

  ‘Oh, the usual. The rich get rich, the poor get poorer, and pennies find their way into the publican’s purse.’

  ‘Pennies is right,’ said the landlord. ‘And we’ll all be the poorer if this business drags on much longer.’

  Sykes listened respectfully, inserting the odd comment, as the two men put the world to rights. Only when the landlord had gone down to the cellar to change a barrel did Sykes address the man directly.

  ‘Landlord called you Matt. Now, squire, do you mind a question? Are you by any chance Matt Walsh?’

  ‘I am. Who’s asking?’

  Sykes held out his hand. ‘Jim Sykes. I’m from Leeds.’

  That was giving nothing away. Unless the man lived a sheltered life he would recognise the accent.

  ‘And what brings you into the country from the big city?’

  Sykes let a pause build, as if reluctant to continue, and then said, ‘It’s delicate, or you might think it so.’

  ‘Spit it out. Does it concern me?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘I owe no one and I’m not expecting some distant relative to pop their clogs and leave me a fortune, though I wouldn’t turn my back.’

  Sykes was tempted to ask did he look like a solicitor’s man but decided against it for two reasons. He might be accused of looking like a policeman, though he had not worn that uniform in half a decade. Besides, Matt Walsh was not a man who would like to beat round the bush.

  ‘I’m interested in a tragic event from ten years ago.’

  The man’s drink was halfway to his mouth. He lowered the glass, his hand tightening around it. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because happen an innocent man went to the gallows.’

  ‘Happen you’re right. There’s nowt to be done about that now. What’s your interest?’ He took a gulp of his pint.

  Sykes thought, he’s trying to work out whether I’m connected with Flaherty, or the murdered man. I don’t look Irish. ‘I’ve an open mind on the subject, but it’s a feeling. If there was an injustice done, I want to write something about it. I’m not out to make money or cause bother but after all this time it’s worth another look I reckon. If there’s something to say, I’d like to record it, perhaps write the book of it, while people concerned are still walking the earth.’

  Sykes liked the sound of that as he spoke the words. Perhaps he would write a book, although the better part of him had decided that Flaherty was most likely guilty, whatever the doctor’s maiden aunt and Mrs Shackleton thought. The police do not want to convict the innocent. Magistrates would not send a case to trial without sufficient
evidence. Twelve good men and true heard the case and knew the finality of their verdict. The man’s excuse was that of the boy in the playground. Wasn’t me, sir, it was another lad who ran off. Don’t know who he was.

  Matt Walsh set his empty glass on the counter in a very definite way. ‘How do you come to be interested in Joe Flaherty?’

  Good question. It was an old standby of Sykes to invent a relation. His favourite was the cousin. ‘I have an older cousin who knew Miss Simonson who spoke up for the man. They met in Southport as girls and kept up with each other over the years, letters and Christmas cards. My cousin was quite cut up when she heard about Miss Simonson’s death. She told me all about her, and about the court case.’

  The landlord returned to the bar. ‘All done down below. Beer’s as clear as Catrigg Foss.’

  ‘Then another couple of pints, landlord, and one for yourself.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Sykes waited to hear whether his companion would let the landlord in on what they had been talking about. He did not, but picked up his pint. ‘I’m for taking the weight off my feet.’

  ‘I’ll join you.’ Sykes picked up his glass.

  Matt Walsh led them to a table by the window, out of earshot of the landlord. He placed a beermat carefully and put down his drink. ‘I don’t want it all raking up again in here. It’s not forgotten but it’s passing into history and that suits me.’

  They sat in silence for several moments. ‘And I don’t want to cause you upset, Mr Walsh.’

  But neither did Sykes want the man to withdraw into silent reverie. Sykes waited, not offering a change of subject, not prompting, just waiting.

  Eventually Walsh sighed. ‘It’ll always be an upset.’

  ‘What was Mr Flaherty like?’

  ‘His name was Joseph. I called him Joe but everyone at the works called him Paddy. He took it in good part. He was a comic, you see. Lads that make others laugh, well it’s hard to take against them. He wouldn’t have been out of place on the stage with his patter and his singing. Oh he was one for arguing the Irish cause, Home Rule, all that, but I wouldn’t say he was mad for it. It was ninety percent the sound of his own voice he liked, and what he thought was expected. He said if there was a vote on Home Rule, he hoped they’d run it before the pubs opened or after they shut or there’d be a low turn-out. You’ve come across that kind of fellow. We’ll start the revolution at chucking out time.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve come across plenty like that. Was he a big drinker?’

  ‘We all were. It’s thirsty work in the lime kilns. But I’ll tell you what, he never missed his mass on a Sunday, the eleven o’clock mass in St Mary and St Michael in Settle.’

  ‘He was religious?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say so. I’m Catholic myself. Most of us, we’re not mad for religion. We just want to steer clear of hell.’

  ‘Did he carry a knife?’

  ‘No, he did not. I said that in court. I’ve helped him home often enough when he was unsteady. I’ve seen him strip off in the heat. I never saw him with a knife.’ He took a drink. ‘We were in the same lodgings, little old cottage on the main road, took us no time to get to work from there. There was one big bed and a little bed in that room. Him and me drew the short straw and shared the big un. None of us had nowt in them days. He had a Missal and a rosary. He had a book of poetry, Yeats, and he drove me mad with his reciting. Yeats and Omar Khayyám. He’d fall asleep reciting. If anyone should have committed a murder, it’s me, on the grounds of his poetry. But I couldn’t get mad at him because he was daft with it. Oh there was them wouldn’t tolerate him because he was Irish, but my granddad was a tinker out of Scotland and there was Irish in him. Maybe that’s why him and me rubbed along.’

  ‘If people didn’t like him…’

  ‘Plenty of people have a down on the Irish, and plenty don’t. Fellow shared with us, I never told Joe but he wouldn’t share a bed with him and he wouldn’t tolerate an Irishman having a bed to himself. That was why we had the arrangement.’

  ‘Who was he, the other fellow who shared with you?’

  ‘Oh rule him out if you’re looking for new culprits. He was out courting and nowhere near that night.’

  ‘What took you to the White Hart?’

  ‘It was closest.’

  ‘Was that the only reason?’

  He waited a long time before answering. ‘I didn’t want us to go there. There’d been trouble with the landlord ever since that business in Dublin. Landlord’s younger brother was stationed over there. Holroyd boasted that his brother had fired at the rebels, and that he’d got some of them.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning he’d shot and killed them.’

  ‘How did Mr Flaherty react?’

  ‘How do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He started singing a rebel song. We were chucked out and told not to go back.’

  ‘All the same you did go back.’

  ‘We reckoned our money was as good as anyone else’s. Holroyd must have thought that, too, because he said, any more trouble, and you’re out. We sat quiet as you like for I don’t know how long and then it all blew up.’

  ‘What blew up?’

  ‘Joe stood up and started to sing. I’d gone out to the privy in the yard and I could hear him. When I came back, the singing had stopped. There was laughing, talking, and no Joe and no Holroyd. Holroyd wasn’t a big fella but he was good at chucking out. When I went outside, thinking I’d have to pick Joe up and take him home, there was already a crowd there, circling Joe, saying someone had gone to fetch the constable. Holroyd was on the ground, bleeding. You know the rest.’

  ‘Will you have another pint and a chaser?’

  ‘I will.’

  A waiter had come on. Sykes beckoned to him and placed the order.

  Matt Walsh spoke quietly. ‘If only I’d made him listen and we’d gone somewhere else that night.’ He took a drink. ‘When I looked at Joe in the dock, heard him being called the accused, and the prisoner, it was like a bad dream. I didn’t think it could be happening. I went to see his family afterwards. They lived in Ormond Quays, Dublin. Joe’s priest gave me the address. Miss Simonson paid my fare, and gave me money. It was the worst day of my life, handing Paddy’s rosary back to his mother. She told me to keep the Yeats poems. Said they were no good to him now.’

  ‘And you have no doubt Joe was innocent?’

  ‘Innocent as the lamb of God. His mistake was to withdraw the knife from Mr Holroyd’s body and leave his prints on the shaft. He was in a state of shock. That knife wasn’t his any more than it was mine.’

  ‘Then why was he found guilty?’

  ‘Would you have believed him? No one else nearby, and him with the knife in his hand and blood on his shirt?’

  Twenty-Four

  Mrs Sugden and I sat together in the parlour. The amount of information she had gathered from Mrs Holroyd amazed me. I had seriously underestimated Mrs Sugden’s abilities.

  ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘I worked her out. She is the kind of woman who must either look down on someone or look up. Having young women to stay suits her very well. She treats them as protégées and fills their heads with old wives’ tales. You, Mrs Shackleton, made the mistake of being too friendly. You should have adopted your daughter of a titled lady stance. That would have found favour. But with me, it was a touch of fawning and being amazed at the marvels of Widow Holroyd’s fascinating life.’

  ‘All the same, she really told you things that… well… You have impressed me, Mrs Sugden.’

  ‘You see, she is not a woman who will have many people to talk to. Meeting me, who is just here for a short time, was like talking to a stranger on the bus.’

  ‘Not quite, because you know who she is.’

  ‘I do indeed, and I suspect her.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of murder, Mrs Shackleton. Murder by proxy.’

  ‘Explain.�
�

  ‘She had a pig slaughtered to welcome the new minister. My reading of the situation is that she tipped the pig man an extra ten bob to do the job on poor Rufus.’

  ‘That would be cheap.’

  ‘Well, I’m guessing the amount. But the pig slaughterer was an itinerant, she gave me that impression. He waited for his opportunity, when someone else could be blamed. That would be her doing. She would have the cunning, he would have the knife.’ Mrs Sugden warmed to her theme. ‘She may even have done the deed herself.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of her as a suspect.’

  ‘Much as she hated the smell of ale, she came into the bar to make sure no one drank too much. If she saw trouble brewing, she might have gone into the back, donned her own husband’s coat and hat, rushed out to stab him and hurried back in, hanging the coat and hat back on the hook. If the police already had a man with a knife in his hand, why would they look at her and her motives?’

  A knock on the door prevented us from discussing this intriguing theory. Mrs Sugden went to answer. Through the window, I saw Lucian’s car was parked next to mine.

  I heard them talking in the hall. They are fond of each other. She was telling him about the rabbit pie, and he joked with her about having been out poaching.

  After letting him in, Mrs Sugden went back to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m glad to see Mrs Sugden has come to the rescue.’ Lucian came in smiling.

  ‘Yes, so am I, but don’t tell her.’

  He handed me a box of chocolates. ‘Here you are.’

  ‘Thank you! What’s this in aid of? And you don’t have to knock on your own door.’

  ‘Can’t a chap buy his sweetheart a box of chocolates without the third degree? I’m sorry I made a bit of a fuss about Sykes. If you do feel the need to investigate, I’d rather you send him off about the business than do it yourself.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too. I should have told you before I began investigating.’ I put the chocolates on the sideboard. ‘Your aunt did hope the truth would come out. Look at her papers if you need confirmation.’