A Death in the Dales

by Frances Brody

  ‘Oh I believe you. But at the end of a person’s life they’re bound to dwell on what was left undone, or wish some things had turned out differently.’

  ‘Yes and it would be comforting to think another person might later pick up the pieces and make sense of it all.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to open the chocolates?’

  ‘Not with rabbit pies just waiting for Harriet and Martin to turn up. Will you stay and join us?’

  ‘I will. Thank you. Friends again?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He looked around the room. ‘You’re right about this parlour. It could be a consulting room by day and a parlour by night. There’s a screen in the cellar that I could bring up.’

  ‘In theory and for a time it would work. You know what would happen in practice. It would soon be full of stethoscopes, thermometers, medical journals, patients’ notes.’

  ‘Well after a time I would expand, if successful.’

  ‘I’m sure you will be.’

  I took out the shoebox. ‘You should look at what Aunt Freda wrote.’

  ‘I’d rather not and, if I’m being honest, I have to say I hope you draw a blank, a big blank.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Think about it, about the impact on the village.’

  ‘Will you let me try out an idea on you?’

  ‘About the murder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please do, especially if it saves you trying it out on someone else.’

  ‘Mrs Holroyd had an insurance policy on her husband’s life…’

  ‘Oh come on! You’re not suggesting…’

  ‘Let me finish. She hated living at the White Hart, she was a teetotaller. Around the time of the murder, she had a pig slaughtered to welcome the new clergyman. What if the slaughterman did it?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘And she instructed him?’

  ‘It’s possible. Rufus Holroyd was stabbed through the heart. A man who kills animals would know how to do it.’

  ‘If he killed pigs, he would have been more likely to slit poor Holroyd’s throat.’

  ‘Too much blood.’

  ‘Let’s sit down and I’ll tell why your theory doesn’t hold up.’

  We sat facing each other on opposite sides of the hearth. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Mr Holroyd was murdered at the end of April.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wrong time of year to kill a pig. Pigs are slaughtered in the autumn, when the weather is cool, not in April. You certainly wouldn’t kill a pig at Eastertime or hire a slaughterman at that time.’

  ‘But Mrs Holroyd said a pig was slaughtered and they were donating some for a feast, for the new clergyman. It was around the time of the murder.’

  ‘The Holroyds may have had a pig killed, but not in April. The meat would have been cured and kept for later. And it is ten years ago, Kate. People make mistakes, conflate events, confuse dates, you must know that.’

  I was not prepared to show him the photograph that Sykes had brought that had the distinctive mark on the handle that I now knew was a kind of signature for Mr Young, Beth and Martin’s father. Sykes would have obtained his information, including the photographs, in his usual intricate ways that were best kept quiet.

  ‘All right, I take your point about the pig.’ I showed Lucian the shoe box. ‘This is full of information about the case.’

  ‘Where did she keep it?’

  ‘I don’t know, just that Mr Wigglesworth brought it for me.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have. He had more sense than to give it to me. Aunt Freda may have appreciated that you’ve taken an interest, but believe me, she wouldn’t want this business to consume your holiday.’

  Lucian pressed the lid tightly on the shoebox. ‘I think we should forget it now.’

  ‘It wasn’t Flaherty. The priest said so, too.’

  ‘What does your precious Sykes think?’

  ‘That the police wouldn’t want to convict an innocent man, that a man with blood on his clothes and a knife in his hand will say anything to save his skin.’

  ‘Then let it rest, Kate, if even Sykes takes that view.’

  ‘He was bound to take that view, as a former policeman. He doesn’t want to think there may have been a mistake. The man who wielded the knife, he knew where to run. He was ready to run.’

  ‘Or he was a shadow on the wall, and a figment of Flaherty’s imagination.’

  ‘I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Lucian, and I know it may not sound like it but I have an open mind.’

  He laughed. ‘Then I hope I don’t meet you when you feel you’ve come to a conclusion. You say you want to get to the bottom of it, but has it occurred to you that there may be no “bottom”, like some deep whirlpool that could suck you in? Kate, please stop. Leave it alone now, for Harriet’s sake if not for mine.’

  ‘Then what is to be done? You could buy a strongbox. Deposit Aunt Freda’s papers at the bank for posterity.’

  ‘Is this what you’re like when you are on a case, letting it take over?’

  ‘I’m sleeping in your aunt’s room, sitting in her chair, looking out on her garden — and yours. I owe it to her to find the truth if I possibly can.’

  The outside door opened and Harriet and Martin tumbled in. I was glad Martin had gained the confidence to go out and about without fearing he would be dragged back to the farm.

  Mrs Sugden called from the kitchen that the food was on the table and not to let it go cold.

  Lucian and I stood up, ready to go through for our meal. He stopped me. ‘Before we go in, I didn’t just come to bring the chocolates.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Gouthwaite has confirmed that Murgatroyd visited the farmhouse on Saturday evening. They had a drink together. Murgatroyd wanted to wish Gouthwaite well and to say he hoped there would be no hard feelings between them. So Martin’s statement at the inquest will be a simple straightforward account of what he saw.’

  It occurred to me that Gouthwaite could have done little else than confirm Martin’s account of Murgatroyd’s visit to the farmhouse. After all, Murgatroyd arrived home alive. He could have told his wife about the visit to Raistrick Farm.

  I wondered what the coroner would make of having two suspects: Mrs Murgatroyd with her knowledge of herbs and her reluctance to stay on her farm, and Mr Gouthwaite, about to be turned off his farm.

  At the kitchen door, quietly enough for Martin not to hear, I asked Lucian, ‘Is Mr Gouthwaite a well man, apart from his broken leg? Does he have a heart condition? Might he have had access to digoxin?’

  ‘I don’t know. Kate, it’s up to the coroner and his officer to look into that. For heaven’s sake, don’t take on another case.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Not unless I have to.

  After our meal, Lucian joined in a game of cards at the kitchen table, generously failing to win and thereby making himself popular with Harriet and Martin.

  It was about eight o’clock when he left. I went to the gate with him.

  ‘Well, Kate, it looks as if Sykes managed to book himself in at the Craven Heifer.’

  ‘Yes I suppose he did. Oh and I forgot to say, I hope it’s all right. He borrowed your bicycle to ride to Stainforth, so as not to use up his petrol.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ He frowned. ‘So, where has he parked his motor?’

  ‘Somewhere out of sight.’

  He smiled. ‘Do you two think you are in the secret service?’

  ‘If so we’re not making the best job of it. I should think our motorcars and your frequent visits are providing a lot of interest. There was probably village speculation about the contents of my trunk.’

  He kissed me and then climbed into his car. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at the inquest. After that I hope you’ll be able to relax and enjoy the holiday a little bit more. And if Mr Sykes does need petrol to get home, just let me know. I’ll wangle some for him.’
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  I watched him drive away. It surprised me that he could not seem to understand that I felt the need to find out the truth when a crime had been committed. To me it seemed akin to his work. When a person came along with symptoms of an illness, he would need the correct diagnosis before prescribing a cure or something to ease the pain. Otherwise he might as well be a snake oil salesman, and I knew him to be a good doctor who did his best for his patients. He might not approve of or like what I did, but surely he could at least try and understand.

  Twenty-Five

  Sykes arrived back at Lilac Cottage around nine o’clock. I knew he had something to tell me or he would have waited until morning and not have suffered another bicycle ride. We were at the kitchen table playing Mrs Sugden’s version of Canasta.

  Although I could see that Sykes was bursting with information, with great restraint, he gave in to Harriet and Martin’s pleas that he join in the game. We were playing for buttons. Being ridiculously competitive, Sykes accumulated most buttons in all sizes and colours and had the temerity to suggest big fat coat buttons were worth more than little pearl buttons. The fact that Harriet and Martin would have enjoyed some small success did not weigh a jot with him.

  ‘It’s luck and skill,’ he announced magnanimously, raking in buttons. ‘I was dealt good hands and made the most of them.’

  Mrs Sugden opened the button tin and pushed it towards him, saying somewhat tartly, ‘You came to this table with no buttons and you’ll take none away.’

  He sighed. ‘You’re a hard woman, Mrs Sugden.’

  ‘And talking of that,’ Mrs Sugden turned to Harriet, ‘isn’t it time some young people were in bed?’

  Harriet returned the pack of playing cards to its box. ‘My candle’s burned down.’

  Mrs Sugden produced two candles. ‘You go up first, Martin. I expect you won’t be as long in the bathroom as Harriet.’

  Martin gave her an odd look. It had probably not occurred to him that he might visit the bathroom for a second time.

  ‘At least brush your teeth.’ Mrs Sugden lit a candle and handed it to him. ‘Miss Simonson was a woman after my own heart. She hoarded candles as well as every item of clothing she ever bought.’

  Harriet found lots of things to talk about before finally going to bed, taking her candle and a book borrowed from Susannah.

  Mrs Sugden whisked away the button box. Sykes carried our cups to the sink. He pointed to the ceiling. Harriet’s room was directly above. The three of us went into the parlour. There was no fire, but it was a mild evening.

  Sykes lit the gas mantle.

  We arranged ourselves around the hearth as though the fire was lit and we were taking some warmth from it.

  He told us about meeting Matt Walsh at the Craven Heifer.

  Mrs Sugden closed the curtains. ‘I don’t want to look at that murder spot. That poor woman, I wonder she didn’t try and move house.’

  For the first time, I showed Mrs Sugden the photograph of the knife that killed Mr Holroyd and explained why I thought it had belonged to Martin’s father, pointing out the distinctive mark on the handle.

  Mrs Sugden looked at the photograph. ‘Wouldn’t it be a shocker if that young lad’s father was the murderer?’

  Sykes leaned forward in his chair. ‘A murderer wouldn’t report his knives missing and that is just what Mr Young did.’ Sykes had our attention and enjoyed the moment. ‘I passed the police house several times earlier, hoping to bump into the local bobby. Luck was with me when I cycled back from Stainforth an hour or so ago. Constable Chapman was just taking off his bicycle clips. I introduced myself.’

  Mrs Sugden raised her eyebrows. ‘Did you now?’

  ‘It’s not so odd. I told him I’d been a bobby myself and had called to say hello. He was quite interested that I’m working privately now though of course I told him I was only here in the capacity of errand boy, bringing a trunk because of the railway strike.’

  Sykes can be most exasperating. He would come to the point eventually but liked to build to a climax. I waited.

  ‘He was impressed that the daughter of a high-ranking West Riding police officer is visiting Langcliffe. I hope you didn’t mind my dropping that in, Mrs Shackleton.’

  ‘It would be all the same if I did.’

  ‘He invited me in and sent out for a gill of beer. His wife is with their daughter in Skipton. She’s expecting. He was glad of a bit of company.’

  Mrs Sugden gave in first. ‘And what did you find out?’

  ‘I’m just coming to that. Mr Chapman has been in post since late 1917. His predecessor had joined up so there was a good while when Langcliffe was without a police presence, including the night of the murder. They would have had to send to Settle police station for someone to come to the White Hart. Because I was so interested in the differences between town and country policing, Mr Chapman showed me how things work. I contrived a little look in the log book.’

  ‘But if there was no copper in Langcliffe at the time of the murder, what was there to see?’ Mrs Sugden disliked Sykes’s insistence on setting the scene before imparting information.

  ‘You’re dead right, Mrs Sugden. But in October, 1915, one Michael Martin Young, giving his occupation as farm worker and travelling slaughterer, reported a set of knives missing. They were entered down as “tools of trade”. The last place he had visited was Raistrick farm, where he’d slept in the barn.’

  ‘That’s the Gouthwaites’ farm. Did Mr Young say the knives bore his mark?’ I asked.

  ‘More than that, he must have drawn it. There was the squiggle in the log book.’

  ‘Why didn’t anyone make the connection?’

  ‘I suppose with the changeover in constables, by the time anyone paid attention — if they ever did — it was too late. The trial was over and done.’

  We sat in silence for several moments. ‘So now do you believe that Aunt Freda saw someone else? It’s highly unlikely that the knife came into the hands of Joseph Flaherty. He lived in Langcliffe. He worked at the kilns. There would be no reason for him to go to the farm.’

  ‘Who would take the knives?’ Mrs Sugden looked from Sykes to me.

  ‘Someone who wanted to place the blame for the murder elsewhere.’

  Sykes sighed. ‘The fact that Mr Young’s knives went missing doesn’t clear Flaherty, but it introduces doubt, and it suggests a good deal of forethought and planning.’

  ‘It points to Gouthwaite.’

  Sykes agreed with a nod.

  ‘A barn on that farm was torched last night. One of the farm workers usually slept there. He could have been killed.’

  ‘Arson?’ Sykes asked.

  ‘It would be hard to prove, but yes, I’m sure of it.’ I told them about Gabriel Cherry and how he helped to find Martin and send him here. ‘He moved out of the barn on the spur of the moment. That move saved his life. The Gouthwaites would have expected him to be there as usual.’

  ‘Was it Gabriel Cherry who brought the rabbits?’ Mrs Sugden asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What a kind man.’

  ‘He may be in danger.’

  Sykes looked grim. ‘No “may” about it if someone tried to burn him alive.’

  From the corner cupboard, I took out the envelope that Gabriel Cherry had given me for safe keeping. I handed the envelope to Mrs Sugden. ‘I’d like your opinion, both of you.’

  They each read the words on the envelope, pencilled in Gabriel Cherry’s neat hand:

  To be opened in the event something happens to me.

  ‘That’s not your writing,’ Mrs Sugden said with evident relief.

  ‘It’s Gabriel Cherry’s writing. He works at Catrigg Farm now.’

  ‘The farm where the man died suddenly?’ Mrs Sugden asked.

  ‘Yes. Mr Murgatroyd, the man’s whose inquest is tomorrow. Gabriel is working for Mrs Murgatroyd now. The Gouthwaites’ lease won’t be renewed. They will be leaving the area.’

  Mrs Sugden raised
her eyebrows. ‘That’ll put their nose out of joint.’

  Sykes looked thoughtful. ‘So, this sudden death — it benefits Gabriel Cherry?’

  His comment surprised me. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Then we had better not rule him out, just because he is a kind man who brings rabbits.’ Sykes smiled sweetly at Mrs Sugden.

  I did not feel inclined to be diverted. ‘Mr Sykes, we are looking into the murder of Rufus Holroyd. Gabriel Cherry was away fighting in April, 1916.’

  Mrs Sugden stared at the envelope as though it might offer some clue. ‘Someone in the butcher’s said a passing tramp set fire to the barn. Does he know different, this Gabriel, is he naming the arsonist?’

  ‘No. He wrote this before the fire. I saw him this morning and asked his permission to open the envelope. At first he was reluctant, saying he didn’t see that my opening the envelope could help. I told him that if he felt he was in danger, prevention would be better than picking up the pieces afterwards. He saw the sense of that and he still did not say yes.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Mrs Sugden held the envelope to the light.

  ‘He said I must do as I think fit. And then he said something very odd. “If you act on it, better do it at night.” When I asked what he meant, he wouldn’t say.’

  ‘So was that a yes or no to your opening the letter?’ Mrs Sugden pulled her cardigan tightly around her and the sleeves over her hands.

  ‘He left it to me to open it if I thought it would help.’

  ‘Help in what?’

  ‘Justice? Saving him from a second arson attack? Or finding an answer to what happened in Langcliffe ten years ago. Now, do I open it, given his reluctance?’

  Mrs Sugden snorted. ‘People pretend reluctance when they want someone else to take responsibility.’

  Sykes broke his silence. ‘He has information that presents a threat to his former employers, the Gouthwaites.’

  ‘Gabriel believes Mrs Gouthwaite set fire to the barn.’

  ‘Is she in love with him?’ Mrs Sugden asked.

  ‘It’s possible. It’s also possible that she is afraid he will expose her in some way. She tried to blackmail someone and he prevented it.’